


Pumpkin Spice Latte

by earlgreytea68



Series: PSL [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-04-29 02:22:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5112731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Eames is obsessed with pumpkin spice lattes, and Arthur completely misses the point. </p><p>Oh, and also there's an egg baby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Normally I try to write a little fic for Halloween, but I'm so behind on fic-writing, so this is the best I can do. It's not really very Halloween-y, but pumpkin spice lattes are a major plot point, so, you know, close enough, right? 
> 
> Thank you to knackorcraft for looking this over for me *ages* ago now when I was worried it was terrible because I think it might actually have been the first straight Inception thing I wrote? I think? 
> 
> And thank you to arctacuda for beta-ing because she rocks the beta-ing. 
> 
> Happy Halloween, everyone!

Chapter One

The pairings were created by drawing names out of a hat. Arthur wasn’t paying attention because it didn’t matter who he was paired with, they would leave the egg to him for the whole week. That was always how group projects worked: he did all the work and everyone else went to parties and had fun. That was Arthur’s understanding of high school. What were you going to do? 

So it shouldn’t have really mattered to Arthur who he was paired with for the stupid egg-baby project, and he was slumped at his desk in the back corner doing the calculus homework he’d been assigned last period when he heard his name and listened with half an ear to the teacher saying, “And Eames.” 

Arthur’s head shot up and he just managed to clamp down on the little choking noise that would have been appallingly embarrassing. He looked over at Eames, unable to resist, and Eames looked, as usual, like he wasn’t paying attention at all. Eames and his friend Yusuf were giggling stupidly over something they were looking at, practically snorting with laughter. Eames, sprawled in his seat in that way he had in which he took up so much more space than was necessary, legs spread wide, slumped so casually, with so much disregard for _everything_. Eames, sticking a pen into his still smiling mouth and swiping his hair back off his forehead. Just… _Eames_. He was _so annoying_. 

The bell rang, and Arthur gathered his stuff up slowly, keeping half an eye on Eames to see if he would try to talk to him about their assignment, but Eames didn’t even glance in his direction. 

So Arthur went up to the teacher and said, “About the egg assignment thing.” 

The teacher glanced up at him as he shifted through papers on his desk, not unkind. This was not one of Arthur’s best classes, with its touchy-feely Life Experience agenda—Arthur much preferred the maths and sciences, with their comforting _answers_ —but he knew he was the sort of student that teachers liked. 

Probably because he didn’t pass notes and laugh annoyingly right in front of them like Eames. 

“Can I…be partnered with someone else?” 

Mr. Cobb set the papers aside, looking at him a bit more closely now, thoughtful. “The pairings were assigned randomly, Arthur.” 

“I know,” Arthur said. “I just—”

“If I switch your pairing, I have to switch everyone’s pairing.” 

“Right,” Arthur said. “Right. I’m not trying to—”

“Do you and Eames not get along?” 

Arthur couldn’t help the snort of amusement that emanated out of him at that. 

Mr. Cobb raised his eyebrows, looking faintly disapproving. 

“Sorry,” Arthur said hastily. “It’s just…Eames and I don’t…know each other really.” This was a polite way of saying _Eames is popular and I am not_ , which surely Mr. Cobb knew, because teachers weren’t _stupid_. 

“Then here’s your chance. Look, he’s not going to destroy your grade single-handedly, Arthur. I’m aware it’s a group project. But part of the project is learning how to work with someone very different who you’re thrown together with. That’s part of Life Experience, too.” 

“Right,” said Arthur weakly. “Yeah. Of course.” 

“You’ll be fine, Arthur.” Mr. Cobb smiled at him. “I think you’ll even have fun.” 

***

 _Fun_ , thought Arthur. Mr. Cobb had lost his mind. _Fun_. Like that was a thing that people like Arthur had. 

The hallways were a generalized chaos of people fleeing school, getting to the rest of their lives. To the _weekend_. Eames would be off to practice, Arthur knew, and this was his only shot to really try to corner him and talk to him. Arthur looked down the hallway at where Eames was standing in front of his locker, frowning into it. Probably wondering what he was supposed to do with all the books, Arthur thought viciously, feeling vicious because of his awareness that he had known where Eames’s locker was from the very first week of school, when he had first laid eyes on Eames and felt his entire world shift off its axis like some dramatic thing in one of the stupid novels he’d had to read for AP Lit over the summer. Stupid _Eames_ , he thought, and took a deep breath and settled his bag more steadily over his shoulder and then walked determinedly down the hallway. 

He stood for a second, hovering at Eames’s shoulder, hoping maybe he’d be noticed without having to say anything. But instead he just looked like an idiot while Eames went on frowning into his locker. His locker was a mess, Arthur saw. No wonder Eames was frowning at it. It was a massive pile of clothing. Arthur wanted to ask if Eames didn’t have a closet in his bedroom or something. 

Instead Arthur said, “Um. Hey.” Which was totally a normal greeting, right? 

Eames didn’t look at him. Eames said, in his stupid British accent that Arthur hated, “Somewhere in this locker I am sure there is a _book_.” Eames reached out and poked a finger into the pile of clothing. “And I think I’m supposed to be reading this book. I think.” 

“Probably,” said Arthur. “Seeing as how that happens a lot in school.” 

Eames laughed, which startled Arthur so badly he almost dropped his bag. Then Eames looked at him, still smiling, and Arthur had never been so close to Eames before, and it was made worse because Eames was _smiling_ at him. Arthur thought it was possible he was going to tip directly over. 

“What can I do for you?” asked Eames pleasantly, as if he was a waiter and they were at a restaurant or something. 

“Um,” said Arthur, and cleared his throat and tried to remember the basic facts of his life. “I’m Arthur,” he said. Good place to start. 

One of Eames’s eyebrows flickered upward, which was dramatic and _annoying_. “I know,” he said. 

Arthur experienced another moment of shock that threatened to tumble him over. “You know?” he stammered. 

“What can I do for you, _Arthur_?” Eames asked. 

Arthur blinked at him. 

Eames lifted both of his eyebrows this time. 

Arthur said, “Oh. Um. I. We’re paired together. For the…egg thing.” 

“The egg thing,” Eames echoed blankly. And then, “Oh, Christ, the egg thing. Right. Are you planning on having children?” 

“I really haven’t thought about it,” said Arthur honestly, caught off-guard. _Having children_ , Arthur thought, was something you worried about if you thought you ever had a shot of having a serious relationship. 

“Right.” Eames swung his locker closed. “I’ve thought about it. I think I am not having a child right now. And I think eggs probably aren’t a whole lot like children anyway.” 

Arthur looked at the closed locker. “Okay,” he said, not understanding the point of the speech. “You never found your book.” 

“Yeah, clearly the universe doesn’t want me to read the book. It’s an important part of my philosophy, darling: You’ve got to listen to what the universe is saying.” 

Arthur startled again at the endearment, turning his gaze back onto Eames. He wished he could stop just _staring_. 

“I’ve got to get to practice,” Eames said. “Did you have something you wanted to say about the egg project?” 

Arthur thought. “You mean, other than, ‘we have to do it together’?” 

Eames looked disappointed. “It is a ridiculous project.” 

“Right, but…we have to do it. It’s for a grade.” 

Eames sighed. “The thing about grades, darling, is that they’re so—”

Arthur held up his hand, feeling a spark of annoyance. “Important to getting into a good college?” he suggested, a little abruptly. 

Eames gave him a look. Slightly cool and calculating. Not like the other ways he had been looking at Arthur. Arthur didn’t know what to make of it. Didn’t know what to make of _Eames_. “Fair enough, pet.” 

_Pet_ , thought Arthur, bristling. 

“I will buy the egg,” Arthur informed him primly. “And I will take care of the egg. And then I will write up your half of the reflection on the act of raising an egg baby, and then you will sign your name to it. Okay?” 

Eames was still looking at him in that _way_. “Did you really just come over here to tell me that you’re going to do the whole project yourself?” 

“I usually do.” 

“Usually come over here to—”

“Usually do the whole project myself.”

Eames just kept looking at him. 

“Everyone else is _incompetent_ ,” said Arthur flatly, and damn it, he knew he was just reinforcing what everyone at the school always said about him, that he thought he was too good for everyone else, but he couldn’t help it if it was, well, true. 

“Eames!” someone shouted down the hallway, and Arthur realized the school had emptied out, that it was just the two of them standing there. 

That would mean he’d missed the bus, Arthur thought. Fuck. 

Eames shouted back, “Yeah,” although he didn’t take his eyes off of Arthur and didn’t look inclined to go anywhere at all. 

Arthur looked at his watch and realized how late he was going to be now that he was going to have to walk. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. 

“Bye,” he said to Eames shortly, because, well, what else was there to say? 

He glanced over his shoulder as he reached the end of the hallway, and Eames was still standing there watching him. Arthur hunched his shoulders against the onslaught of _Eames_ and stepped outside. 

***

Arthur spent his Friday night at work, as usual. The coffee shop was as empty as it normally was on Friday nights, because everyone else was off having that mysterious thing they called _lives_. Arthur was only slightly late, even after the debacle with the bus, and he settled into his shift by reading the Hemingway he’d been assigned, pausing every so often to take care of a customer. 

The manager had given him the day shift on Saturday because the manager thought he was being nice by giving him a weekend night off every so often, as if Arthur was going to have _plans_ on weekend nights. 

His mother seemed to labor under the same illusion. “What time do you get out?” she asked him, when he kissed her good-bye after snagging an apple for breakfast. 

“Five,” he answered. 

“And then you should go out with some friends,” she said. 

“Yeah,” Arthur lied. “Absolutely.” 

She smoothed his hair back and frowned at him and said, “You work too hard,” and he said, “I’m fine,” and left her. 

Saturday day shifts were busy and flew by, and when he was done he snagged himself a table in the corner and set up the multiple drafts of his college essays, glancing between them and feeling anxious. The guidance counselor said he had to make a decision as to which he was going to use. How did people make _decisions_ like this? His entire life was hanging in the balance. 

“I was thinking Chauncey,” said a voice, and then someone sat in the chair opposite him. 

Arthur looked up, thinking, first, _Is someone talking to me?_ And then, _Is_ Eames _talking to me?_

Because it was Eames, slumping and sprawling into the chair the way he always did. He was holding a to-go cup of something, and he was frowning at the papers Arthur was colonizing the table with. 

“What?” Arthur said, because it was the first (stupid) question he could articulate. 

“We’ve got to name the bloody egg, right? So I suggest Chauncey.” 

“ _Chauncey_?” 

“What’s all this?” Eames waved his hand over the papers with interest, clearly trying to read them upside-down. 

Arthur felt the flush on his face, moved quickly to gather the papers together. “Nothing,” he said, shuffling them into piles, wincing at how disorganized they were going to be now. 

Eames lifted his annoying eyebrow at Arthur but didn’t say anything. 

So Arthur said sharply, “What are you doing here?” 

“It’s pumpkin spice latte season, darling. One must never deny oneself pumpkin spice lattes. It’s part of my philosophy.” 

“You have never been in here before,” said Arthur, because he knew this for a _fact_. If Eames had been in this coffee shop before, Arthur would have known _immediately_. 

“Right,” said Eames slowly, cocking his head. “They’ve never had pumpkin spice lattes before. Do you come here a lot?” 

Arthur basically _lived_ here, he thought. He said, in a knee-jerk reaction, “No.” Eames lifted his eyebrows. “I mean, I don’t—I work here, I—”

“Are you working now?” 

“No, I just finished and I—”

“What the bloody hell are you doing with your Saturday evening, Arthur, darling?” 

“I—stop calling me that. And I’m doing something productive. You’re just having a pumpkin spice latte. They’re not even that good, why is everyone obsessed with pumpkin spice lattes?” 

“I’m sorry about the egg thing,” said Eames, startling him. “I was going to tell you when I saw you on Monday, but, you see, the universe gave you to me now, and we should not ignore the universe, right? Philosophy.” Eames sipped his pumpkin spice latte. 

“I…” Arthur wished he could think of _things to say_ when Eames was talking to him. “What’s there to be sorry about with the egg? We haven’t gotten it yet, so you haven’t had a chance to break it yet.” 

Eames laughed, startling Arthur again. Why did Eames keep _laughing_ at him? 

“ _Chauncey_ ,” said Eames, “his name is _Chauncey_. You wound me, darling, when you refer to our son as an ‘it.’”

“I… What if I wanted a daughter?” 

“Oh, then we’ll have to try again,” said Eames. “I hear all the fun’s in the trying.” Eames winked at him as he sipped his latte. 

Eames _winked_ at him. 

Arthur said faintly, “I have to go.” 

“Go?” Eames looked surprised. “Go where?”

 _Anywhere where you’re not winking at me and smiling at me and using up all my air with your stupid eyes and your stupid accent and your stupid lips_ , thought Arthur. “I. Just. You know.” 

“You were clearly settled for the evening. I would feel guilty for interrupting you, if I were a nice person. I am very much not a nice person, Arthur. I am, in fact, a _terrible_ person. This is our last weekend before the responsibilities of egg-parenthood settle heavily around us. I say we sod painting the nursery and do something really extravagant.” 

Arthur stared at him. “I…don’t actually think I understand you when you talk to me.”

“It’s the accent,” said Eames. 

“It’s really not the accent.” 

“I am going to take this egg project very seriously for you, darling,” Eames said earnestly. “I am going to be the world’s best egg-father. Or egg-mother. You know what? Fuck gender roles. We will raise Chauncey free of the restrictions of patriarchal society. And also, we’ll let him have cake for breakfast every once in a while. That’s non-negotiable for me; denying yourself cake for breakfast every once in a while leads to really unhappy adults, Arthur, I’m telling you.” 

Arthur felt a little like he no longer knew what he was getting into. He should have shut up about the egg project. He said, “I can raise Chauncey by myself, it’s fine.” And then he thought, _What the hell are you talking about, Arthur, his name is not Chauncey_. 

“Darling, I would never do that to you. Even if we have a messy breakup because you run off with your personal trainer, I would never abandon our children.” 

“We only have the one.”

“You wanted a daughter, too.” 

“Why do you think I would be the one to run off?” asked Arthur. 

“Because you’re ready to run off right now,” Eames said. 

And it was true, Arthur had stuffed his papers into his bag and pulled it over his shoulder and was ready to go, he really was. Arthur had been ready to go ages ago, why was he still sitting here? 

“But that is all in our future,” said Eames lightly, standing. “You, the personal trainer, our messy breakup, the decimation of my heart, little Chauncey’s therapy bills, et cetera. For now, we are still desperately in love and besotted with our future, are we not?” 

Arthur stared up at him and stammered, “I’m not—I’m not—”

“Darling.” Eames cut him off and leaned over him, and he was so incredibly close that Arthur literally held his breath. “Come and paint the town red with me.” 

And what did Arthur say? Arthur gasped for oxygen and said, “‘Decimate’ technically means to destroy ninety percent of something, so if I decimated your heart it would be—”

“At least come pick out high chairs with me,” said Eames, smiling. Eames just kept _smiling_ while Arthur just kept being _stupid_. 

“Okay,” said Arthur, on what felt like his last breath. 

Eames straightened away from him, looking pleased, and then said, “Let me just get another pumpkin spice latte for the road.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot last time to thank mykmyk for having given this a read-through! THANK YOU!!

Chapter Two

He literally meant _for the road_. Because Eames had a flashy red car parked in front of the coffee shop. Of course he did. Arthur didn’t know much about cars, but this was a nice car. 

Arthur said stupidly, “You drive?” 

“Of course I drive. Don’t you?” 

“I…have a driver’s license,” Arthur said, because that seemed more accurate than giving the impression that he had a car and drove all the time. 

“Good. Then you can drive.” Eames tossed him the keys. 

Arthur caught them instinctively. “What?” 

“I am bloody rubbish at driving on the right side of the road here. Astonishing they let me behind the wheel, really.” Eames easily slid into the passenger seat. 

Arthur stared after him, then took a deep breath and walked the long way around the back of the car so he could give himself a pep talk. “This is not a big deal,” he told himself, under his breath. “Whatever, it’s fine. You’re just going to drive around with the hottest guy in school for a little while, and it is totally going to be fine, and you’re talking to yourself behind the trunk of this guy’s car, and you’re losing your mind, _stop it_.” 

And then he walked calmly to the driver’s side and got in. 

Eames was giving him that look he had, that eyebrows-raised, Arthur-is-a-crazy-person look. “Okay?” 

“Just, you know, checking the trunk.”

“Checking the trunk,” said Eames. 

“To make sure it’s road-safe.” Arthur refused to acknowledge the fact that he was sure the tips of his ears were red. 

“It’s road-safe,” Eames told him. “But I do appreciate your concern. As I’m sure Chauncey will as well.” 

“Chauncey is an incredibly stupid name,” Arthur told him, adjusting every single mirror because the last thing he wanted to do was get Eames’s fancy car in an accident. 

“Have you ever tried a pumpkin spice latte? How can you not like pumpkin spice lattes?” 

“I don’t actually like coffee,” Arthur admitted. 

“You spend all your time in a coffee shop but you don’t like coffee?” Eames gaped at him. 

“I like tea,” said Arthur, and then, “I thought maybe you did, too.” 

“Because I’m British?” 

It had been a stupid, stupid thing to say out loud, Arthur thought. A stupid, stupid thing to fantasize about. Making himself cups of tea during long shifts and thinking of Eames and how maybe he would make cups of tea, too. 

“I do like tea,” Eames went on, “but _pumpkin spice lattes_ , Arthur.” 

“Right,” said Arthur. “What are we actually doing here?”

“I’m drinking my pumpkin spice latte. As soon as you decide the car is road-safe, you can start driving.” 

“Driving where?” 

“To the mall.”

“And what are we going to do at the mall?”

“Pick out highchairs,” said Eames, and sipped his latte. 

“No, Eames, seriously.” 

“I was being serious. I think we should start an egg-baby registry. Make everybody buy us something for Chauncey. The first thing we should put on our egg-baby registry is a new television.” 

“We’re not making an egg-baby registry,” said Arthur. 

“I bet Mr. Cobb would be impressed at how seriously we’re taking the project.” 

“Babies don’t need highchairs right away, you know. They can’t sit up when they’re born.” 

“I love that that is the detail you have chosen to fixate on.” 

“Why are we in your car right now?” asked Arthur. 

“I don’t know this place very well. Take me to your favorite spot in the city.” 

Arthur turned the car off. 

Eames said, “Oh, don’t be like that, pet. I was only—”

“We’re at my favorite spot in the city. And don’t call me ‘pet.’”

Eames glanced at the coffee shop, then looked back at Arthur. “What about ‘petal’? Would ‘petal’ be okay?”

“Petal?” echoed Arthur. “Like, what’s on flowers?” 

“I like it. ‘Petal.’ Suits you, darling.” 

“ _Arthur_ ,” said Arthur. “My name is _Arthur_.”

Eames looked surprised. “I know what your name is. You told me. We can go to my place.” 

Arthur had been on the edge of bewildered exasperation, which he was finding to be his standard mood when he was having a conversation with Eames, but now he froze up. “Your place?” 

“Right. My house. I have a house. I live in this house. Most people live in houses. Possibly you have a house as well. But I wouldn’t want to presume. It could be that you just live in the coffee shop. Actually, you live in the coffee shop, don’t you?” 

“No, I…I have a house, too. Okay.” Arthur took a deep breath. “Look, whatever you think you need to apologize for about the egg, it’s fine, okay? I get it, apology accepted, you have…done whatever you thought you needed to do, and we can name the egg Chauncey if that’s what you want, and I’ll, you know, see you on Monday with Chauncey in tow and you should enjoy the rest of your weekend.” Arthur pressed Eames’s keys back into Eames’s hand and got out of the car, really very proud of himself. 

Except that Eames opened his car door and said sharply, “Hey.” 

Arthur closed his eyes and cursed him. Why couldn’t he just _go_? Why couldn’t he just _leave him alone_? Arthur had been _so happy_ being ignored by everybody all these years. Now all of a sudden the most popular person at school was determined to _notice_ him. 

“Is this seriously about the ‘petal’ thing? I thought you’d like it better than ‘kitten.’” 

Arthur was startled into turning back to him. “What?” he said. What was he _talking_ about? 

“Fine, I will call you Arthur if you wish to be called Arthur,” announced Eames extravagantly. Then he paused. Then he said, “What about King Arthur? Can I call you King Arthur? Oh, I could work with that! We could do all sorts of nicknames off of that! I could call you, like, Your Majesty and things like that. I like this idea. Good idea, Arthur.” 

“I haven’t had an idea,” Arthur bit out, losing his temper a bit. Why was Eames so _obtuse_? “What are you _doing_?” he demanded. “All right, you’ve had your bit of fun, you’ve done whatever this is, you can go to whatever party I know you have waiting for you and you can tell all of them that I was happier sitting in my coffee shop with college essays and no car and just wanting to be called by name, because I am, yes, the world’s most boring teenager, so.” Arthur realized he didn’t know what point he was trying to make anymore. “Yes,” he finished. “That’s it. You can go.” 

Eames’s eyes were narrowed at him. “What is it you think I’m doing here?”

“I have no fucking idea,” Arthur informed him coldly. 

“I wanted a fucking pumpkin spice latte,” Eames retorted, matching his tone. “That’s all it was.” 

“Fine,” Arthur bit out. “ _Fine_. I will make you another one. I will make you the best fucking pumpkin spice latte of your entire life. You will have _dreams_ about this pumpkin spice latte. You’ll—”

And then he was up against the door of the coffee shop, with enough force that he heard the jangle of the inside bell as the door was jostled. And Arthur had a moment of panic at being cornered, because Eames was broader than him and heavier than him and damn it, Arthur hated having to fight, but in the next instant all of the fight went out of him because Eames was kissing him. 

Eames was _kissing_ him. 

Probably Eames had kissed a million people in his life already. Arthur had not. So Arthur didn’t have a whole lot to compare Eames to, but he decided that Eames was the best kisser in the entire _universe_. Arthur felt himself _melt_. It was _ridiculous_ and _instantaneous_ , how badly Arthur wanted Eames, how Arthur reached out and pulled him in by the collar of the coat Eames was wearing, how Arthur kissed back without thinking. Without _thinking_. The world was quiet and still because the only thought rushing about inside of him was _Eames_. 

Eames pulled his head back, although he stayed against Arthur, pressing him into the door. His lips were red and swollen, even more devastatingly attractive than they normally were, and he was breathing hard, and he looked a little dazed. “Fuck,” he breathed. 

Arthur shook his head a little bit to try to clear it. “What are you doing?” he tried to demand, although it came out breathlessly. 

“I have no idea,” Eames said. “Christ, Arthur, where did you _come_ from?” And then he kissed him again. 

Arthur kissed him back. 

Someone rapped on the glass of the door behind him. Ariadne, who had the shift after him and was probably amused as hell by all of this right now. 

“Right,” Eames gasped, pulling back again, although he didn’t pull back very far, he stayed panting into Arthur’s mouth. “Do you still want to go to the mall?” 

“The mall?” echoed Arthur, confused. “I never wanted to go to the mall.” 

“Right. Good. Come home with me, yeah?” 

Arthur’s stomach swooped and he felt light-headed and suddenly this was the best and most dazzling Saturday night of his entire life, and it was the opposite of anything he would normally ever do, he was supposed to be editing his college essays. “Yes,” Arthur said, and Eames’s mouth bit the word out of him, chased the taste of it with his tongue. “ _Yes_ ,” said Arthur, and nodded wildly just in case Eames had any doubt. 

***

Eames said he should still drive because Eames really was rubbish at driving over here, so Arthur found himself with his hands closed around the steering wheel, following Eames’s directions to his house. Arthur felt dizzy with the amount of tension in the car, with how much he wanted to say _Fuck it_ , and pull over to the side of the road and just fall on top of Eames, because this was _Eames_ , who he had been silently pining over from afar like everybody else at school and Eames _wanted_ him. Eames, meanwhile, was still sipping on his stupid fucking pumpkin spice latte like nothing had just happened between them, and he sounded as casual as anything as he directed them, and slowly the knot of anticipation in Arthur’s stomach started to dissolve. Unpleasantly. Because maybe he was reading this all wrong. Maybe Eames felt no throb of urgent connection between them. Eames probably kissed people like that all the time. Eames probably just… _did_ things, like this, because Eames was normal and lived this kind of life, Arthur was sure of it. 

Eames lived in a development of McMansions, because of course he did, and Arthur parked his car and looked out at the fancy stone on the front of Eames’s house and said, “Maybe I should—” and if Eames had kissed him at that moment, Arthur might have balked, might have felt unsure and uncertain, but Eames brushed his hand over the back of Arthur’s on the gearshift and just said, “Come,” and got out of the car. 

So Arthur got out of the car. 

The house was enormous, and Arthur felt lost just in the front entryway. Eames moved confidently through to the back, which was a huge kitchen-family room combo. Eames shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over a chair at the breakfast bar and said, “Girls, say hello to Arthur.” 

Arthur looked at the “girls.” They were maybe 12 or 13, clearly identical twins. Dressed differently, but other than that they were mirror images. And they looked a lot like Eames, too. They were sitting on the couch in the family room area, painting their nails and watching some kind of musical thing on the television. 

“Hello, Arthur,” they chorused obediently. 

Then one said, “I thought you were just going out to get coffee.” 

“I did,” said Eames, fiddling around in the kitchen with something. 

“Took you long enough,” said the other twin, but not with much interest. 

Arthur stood caught between the two living areas and glanced toward Eames in the kitchen. If Eames was getting him a beer, Arthur thought he might bolt again. He wasn’t going to get pulled into Eames’s house and gotten _drunk_ or something. 

But Eames said, “Arthur, darling, would you like a cup of tea?” 

And the thing was that Arthur had melted when Eames had pressed him up against the door and kissed him, and Arthur had been able to understand that, because Eames was a good kisser and Arthur had been hormonally crazy about him forever. None of that explained the fact that Arthur experienced the same melting sensation over Eames offering him a cup of tea. 

“Petal?” said Eames patiently when Arthur just went on staring at him. “Sorry. Your Majesty?” 

“Tea,” echoed Arthur stupidly. 

“I’m going to take that as a yes,” said Eames, turning away from him and switching on an electric kettle. “And I don’t want to muddle your head even more with _choices_ , so I’ll just go basic for you, hmm?”

Arthur watched him, watched him pull down a mug and scoop tea leaves into a bag, and Arthur felt like he couldn’t breathe because his thoughts were basically, _Oh my God, you stupid idiot, I think you are in love with him because he offered you a cup of tea._

“Tea, girls?” Eames called, oblivious to Arthur’s complete and utter _crisis_. 

“Yes, please!” they chorused back at him. 

Eames shook his head at the two mugs he took out. “Nobody wanted a pumpkin spice latte, though, did they? Nobody in this house has any taste.” Eames looked up at Arthur and grinned. 

Arthur stared at him, his heart thudding wildly in his ears. 

Eames cocked his head at him and looked quizzical but didn’t say anything. He went about making tea for his sisters and then said, “How do you take yours, Arthur?” 

“Nothing,” said Arthur, and so Eames just turned and handed him the mug, lightly and easily, and then he said, “This way.” 

Arthur made himself follow, feeling like he was tugging himself through syrup, bracing himself for the heady impact of Eames’s bedroom. 

But Eames took him to a media room and settled onto an enormous leather couch. “So,” he said, continually oblivious to Arthur’s complete lunacy. “What is it that you like to watch, Your Highness?”

Arthur sat on the other end of the couch and put his tea down on the end table. 

“We have quite a selection, I’ll have you know,” Eames went on, “but I would highly recommend _Blackadder_ because it’s _Blackadder_.” Eames was fiddling with the remote control, turning the system on, and he looked up then and smiled at Arthur. Who must have looked like an idiot, because then Eames said, smile fading, “You okay?” 

And then Arthur _lost_ his _mind_ and launched himself onto Eames. 

Eames made an _oof_ sound of obvious surprise but caught the bundle of Arthur and managed to catch up to the feverish pace of Arthur’s kiss. 

“Okay,” Eames mumbled into his mouth, and closed his hands into Arthur’s hair and pulled a little bit, which made Arthur growl— _growl_ —and kiss him harder. “Okay— Arthur— You—”

Why did he keep talking? Why did he—Arthur pulled back in sudden horror. “Sorry,” he panted. “Sorry. I—”

“No, you do not need to apologize,” Eames said, shaking his head firmly, “I am not protesting this at all, I thoroughly approve of your nefarious plan to get me to my own house and ravish me.” 

“Good,” said Arthur, relieved, and pulled his sweater up over his head, tossing it away carelessly. 

Eames blinked, pressed underneath him into the corner of the couch, and said, “No, really, I applaud all of this, I’m going to, you know, Like it on Facebook and whatever else I can do to express how much I _strongly, strongly_ am in favor of this, but we don’t have to—” 

Arthur bit underneath Eames’s jaw, because Eames talked too much. 

Eames gasped and said, “Jesus, Arthur, you’ll leave a mark.” 

“Right, sorry,” mumbled Arthur into Eames’s skin, getting his hands up underneath Eames’s terrible shirt. 

“I just don’t want you to think that I brought you here because I expected you to—” said Eames, his hands tearing through Arthur’s hair now, as Arthur nosed his way over Eames’s collarbone and just _breathed_. 

“I don’t think that,” managed Arthur. 

“So we don’t have to…”

A sudden horrifying thought occurred to Arthur. He sat up abruptly and looked down at Eames and said, “We don’t have to. Right. If you don’t… _do_ …this—”

“Arthur,” Eames cut him off, looking firm. “ _Fuck_ gender roles.” 

“Right,” said Arthur, relieved. “Right.” And then he slid off of Eames and went for his pants. 

“Christ, Arthur,” Eames said, as Arthur attacked his fly. “What are you _doing_?” 

Arthur hesitated, losing his bravado, and sat between Eames’s thighs, feeling like an idiot, and looked at him. “I thought you would like…”

“I’m just saying,” said Eames, giving him a lopsided smile, “I went for a pumpkin spice latte and stopped to talk to you because I thought you looked lonely and now you’re offering to give me a blowjob, so it’s just that you might make me dizzy, petal.” 

Arthur stared at him. Arthur sat there stupidly and stared at him. 

“Arthur?” said Eames hesitantly, after a second. 

“You thought I looked lonely,” said Arthur. 

“I… What? Yeah.” 

“Right.” Arthur felt like someone had dumped cold water over him. Of course. _Of course_. And _You thought you were in love with him. You stupid, stupid idiot_. “You thought I looked _lonely_.” Arthur stood and went in search of his sweater. 

Eames sat up, and Arthur refused to look at him, kiss-mussed on the couch because he’d _attacked_ him. “Arthur—”

“You thought I looked lonely.” Arthur pulled his sweater over his head. “So of course you stopped to talk to me. Of course. Poor Arthur. So lonely. Must be desperate for someone clever and popular to come and—”

“That’s not how it was. Arthur—”

“And so then there would be some ridiculous _pity fuck_ , and you’d call everyone up and tell them how easily I bent over for you—”

“Arthur.” Eames was going from confused to angry, Arthur could see it in the set of his face, hear it in the tone of his voice. “What about me makes you think I would—”

“ _Everything_ about you!” Arthur shouted at him. “Everything about you and your fancy car and your practices after school and your fucking easy life because everybody loves Eames. I’ve been stuck here for thirteen years and you walk in and own the place in six fucking weeks.” 

Eames stood now, buttoning his pants with jerky motions. “You don’t know anything about it.” 

“And I wasn’t lonely,” Arthur spit out. “I was perfectly fine until you interrupted me.” 

“They said this about you, you know,” Eames snapped angrily. “That you’re condescending and miserable and not worth my time. And I just kept saying that I thought you seemed _nice_.” 

Arthur was so furious he was shivering with it. His hands closed into fists and he thought if he punched Eames, he’d never stop. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath and said, amazingly evenly, “I want to go home.” 

And Eames said, “Fine.” 

***

Arthur wanted to huddle into the passenger seat of Eames’s car. 

He didn’t. He sat straight up and stared out the windshield. 

He wished he was staring somewhere else, because Eames really was a terrible driver. 

Eames was silent and Arthur was silent, and the tension in the car was unbearable for a completely different reason than it had been before, and Arthur gave Eames terse one-word directions until they reached his house. And Arthur tried not to think about the rundown neighborhood, about how Arthur’s entire house could have fit in Eames’s media room, basically. He unbuckled his seatbelt and didn’t look at Eames when he said, “Thank you for the ride.” 

Eames said, “Arthur.” 

Arthur stood and said without looking back, “Now you can tell everybody they’re right about me,” and slammed the car door shut. 

His mother was spying out the window when he walked in. “Who was that?” she asked, all excitement for him. 

“Someone from school,” Arthur said. 

“How lovely, Arthur,” said his mother. “Did you have a good time?” 

“It was great,” Arthur said hollowly, and went up to his room and closed the door and curled up and wondered if he could wish himself dead. 

He wasn’t lonely, he thought. Because if he thought of himself as being lonely—if he thought of really how incredibly lonely he had been for his entire life—he’d never be able to get himself out of bed in the morning. It was going to get better, he reminded himself. It was all going to get better. It really, really was. 

He didn’t think of being lonely. 

And he didn’t think of Eames saying that he had thought that Arthur seemed nice.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated a lot whether to put this up, given everything happening in the world tonight, and then decided that, actually, maybe we all really needed something like this tonight. We don't need screeds of hatred and war-mongering. We need a lot more love. 
> 
> Those of you suffering tragedy tonight: My thoughts are with you.

Chapter Three

“I need an egg,” said Arthur on Monday morning, looking at their eggless fridge in dismay. 

“For what?” his mother asked, in the middle of getting ready. She was running late. She was always running late. 

“Some stupid project,” Arthur said sulkily. “We have to take care of egg-babies.” 

“Well, you didn’t mention this,” his mother pointed out, sounding annoyed. 

It was true: he hadn’t. Because he’d been trying to ignore the egg project. Because his egg was with _Eames_ and named _Chauncey_. Damn it. 

For the first time in his entire life, Arthur considered telling his mother he was too sick to go to school. 

And then he thought of how much vindication that would be for Eames, to know that lonely Arthur was holed up in his room feeling sorry for himself, and he closed the refrigerator door and said, “I’ll stop at the store after my shift tonight to get eggs.” 

“I was thinking,” said his mother. “You should have your friend come over for dinner.” 

“What friend?” Arthur asked, stupidly. 

His mother smiled at him. “The one you were hanging out with on Saturday, silly,” she said, and tousled his hair, which she knew he hated. 

“Oh, he’s…busy,” said Arthur. “He’s, like, a big jock.” Which was true. 

His mother lifted her eyebrows. “Really?” 

“He does something with lacrosse or something,” Arthur said, and wondered why he didn’t _shut up_. 

“Oh, Arthur, how fun! I always told you that you should get involved in sports. Do you go to the games?” 

Arthur contemplated what in the kitchen he could use to kill himself. Surely the kitchen would be loaded with possibilities. “Lacrosse is stupid,” Arthur said, like the very mature seventeen-year-old he was. 

His mother laughed at him. “Well, you have to change your tune now that you’re dating a member of the lacrosse team.” 

Arthur looked up at her so quickly that he actually clattered a chair over. 

His mother stared at him.

“Who said I’m dating him? Why would you think I’m dating him? I’m not dating him.” 

“Okay,” his mother said. “Fine. I got the wrong impression, sorry. Sue me for trying to be a very open-minded and accepting mother.” 

“No,” Arthur said, because he _did_ appreciate that. “No, you’re the best. You are. It was just a stupid—we’re doing the egg project together. That’s all.” 

“What’s your egg’s name?” his mother asked, smiling. 

“Chauncey,” Arthur heard himself answer. 

***

Arthur had been hoping to avoid Eames all day. That shouldn’t have been hard, considering that their paths had crossed one-on-one exactly zero times before Friday. 

Instead Eames arrived at Arthur’s locker first thing that morning, while Arthur was packing his bag for the day’s classes. 

“Look at all of the _books_ you have in there,” Eames remarked, sounding awed. 

“It is my locker for _school_ ,” Arthur pointed out, and then slammed it in Eames’s face. 

Eames jumped, startled. 

“What do you want,” Arthur demanded flatly. 

Eames said, “Actually, I was going to come over here and be really cross with you, but I got distracted by all of your books. Do you do that on purpose?”

“Do I have books in my locker for the purpose of distracting you?” drawled Arthur. “No. Amazingly, no, that’s not why I have books in my locker.” 

“About Saturday—”

“We’re not talking about Saturday. _Ever_ ,” said Arthur, his voice low with threat. 

“Fine,” said Eames, after a moment. “That’s fine with me. Let’s forget about it. About the egg project...” 

“Oh.” Arthur sighed and closed his eyes and said, “Yeah, I know we were supposed to have an egg today, but I—”

“Here,” said Eames, and suddenly, just like that, Arthur was holding an egg. 

Arthur was staring at it. It was a little white egg. And it had a face painted on it. A _face_. 

“That was my sisters,” Eames said. “They’re very excited about being egg-aunts.” 

“What the hell is this?” Arthur said, staring at it in alarm. 

“It’s Chauncey.” Eames helpfully pointed out where _Chauncey_ had been written in blue across the bottom of the egg, underneath its face. “He’s your responsibility for now. We’ll switch off tonight, or tomorrow, or whatever. Whatever you prefer. I’ll take care of Petunia until then.”

Arthur was still staring at the face-egg named Chauncey. “You’ll take care of who?”

“Petunia,” said Eames again. 

Arthur looked up at him, and Eames was holding another fucking egg with another fucking face painted on it. And meticulously painted golden ringlets. And _Petunia_ written on it in pink. “Why do we have two eggs?” Arthur asked in alarm. 

“Because I hear you’re an overachiever, and I promised you I’d take this project seriously. Plus, you wanted a daughter.” 

“I didn’t…” Arthur said dazedly. “We’re not talking about Saturday.” And then he brought up Saturday, because he was an idiot. “Blue and pink–what happened to ‘fuck gender roles’?”

“My sisters had different ideas.” 

“What are you doing?” asked Arthur. 

“Taking Petunia to English lit with me.” 

“That’s not what I mean, that’s not…” Arthur had no idea what to make of any of this. Was this a normal thing to have happen after you made out with someone in their media room and then got offended and demanded to be taken home? Arthur had never done that before, but he hadn’t expected the fallout to be… _this_. 

The bell rang. 

Eames said, “Be careful with Chauncey, I’m dead attached to him,” and left Arthur alone with his books and his egg-with-a-face. 

Arthur was late for class for the first time in his life. 

***

Arthur brought Chauncey to his shift at the coffee house. Ariadne said, “So how’d it go with the hot guy?” Ariadne was older, in college, and so did not automatically know all of the politics of the high school anymore, especially since Eames was new this year. 

Arthur said, “Fine,” because that would provoke fewer questions than _I don’t want to talk about it_. He set Chauncey down on the counter and began making himself tea for the shift. 

Ariadne said, “What the hell is that thing?” 

“Chauncey,” answered Arthur. 

“Did you paint his face?” Ariadne sounded fascinated. 

Arthur said, “My partner’s sisters did.” 

“I think he looks a little like you, Arthur,” said Ariadne. 

“Shut up,” said Arthur. 

***

In the morning, Eames stopped by Arthur’s locker. 

Arthur said, “Look, we don’t have to switch off.” 

“We absolutely have to switch off. Otherwise they’ll think we have favorites.” 

“They’re eggs, Eames.” 

“I don’t think you’re taking this project seriously enough,” Eames told him. 

Arthur sighed and traded Chauncey for Petunia. 

Eames said, “Look, I have a, er, favor to ask of you.” 

Arthur braced himself with dread and looked up. 

“I have a game tonight.”

“Okay,” Arthur said. 

“So could you watch Chauncey for me?” 

“Why can’t you just leave him in the locker room?” Arthur asked. “You know he’s not _actually_ a baby.” 

Eames looked uncomfortable. “Right, but Cobb might check up on us to make sure we’re treating him like a baby, and…I don’t…trust people not to…” 

“Right,” said Arthur, getting the gist of it. He’d been the subject of enough teasing for taking school seriously, it did not surprise him at all that a couple of lacrosse players might vindictively break Chauncey. “I can just take them both for the day and night.” 

Eames shook his head. “That wouldn’t be fair. Come to the field before the game, I’ll give him to you, I can get him back after the game.” 

Which implied that he’d be watching the game. “Oh,” said Arthur. “I don’t—”

“Unless you have to work?” said Eames. 

“No, not tonight, but—”

“Okay, good, then it’ll work.” Eames looked pleased. “Thanks, darling,” he said, and walked off down the hall. 

Arthur looked down at Petunia and said, “ _Lacrosse_.” 

***

Arthur texted his mother to let her know he wouldn’t be home after school. _Have to go to the lacrosse game_. Then: _Please don’t read anything into this. It has to do with our egg project_. She texted back, _Have fun!!! xxxxoooo ;)_

Oh, God, thought Arthur, and hated absolutely every single thing about his life. He walked down to the lacrosse field and it felt like everyone in the high school was there and they were all watching him and whispering about what he was doing there and Arthur wanted to die. 

And then Eames saw him and smiled and jogged over, and he looked ridiculously hot in his uniform and Arthur didn’t understand why either of them was still talking to the other, but inexplicably the only thing about Arthur’s life that didn’t unequivocally suck was that Eames was very seriously and carefully handing an egg over to him. 

“Be good for Dad while he has his hands full with both of you,” Eames told the eggs seriously. 

"I think I'll be able to handle it," said Arthur drily. 

“Cheers for this, petal,” said Eames, beaming, and then ran back over to his team. 

Arthur took his two eggs and found a seat on the bleachers, apart from everyone else. He tried not to look too self-conscious as he settled Chauncey and Petunia carefully and took out his Hemingway. He felt like everyone was looking at him and whispering, and he wished they would all go back to ignoring him the way they usually did. 

And then Mr. Cobb arrived and made everything much worse by booming, “Arthur! Glad to see you’re here with your egg-baby. Taking the project seriously, unlike everyone else.” Cobb cast a disapproving eye over all of Arthur’s classmates on the bleachers with him. 

Arthur wanted to shrink to the size of an egg himself. 

“Why do you have two eggs?” Cobb went on, oblivious to Arthur’s desire to have either him or Cobb just _die_. 

Arthur said, “Um. Eames and I couldn’t agree on whether we wanted a son or a daughter.” And then he cringed at the sentence. That made them sound insane. 

Cobb grinned like he thought this was wonderful. “See? I told you partnering with Eames would be good for you.”

“Define ‘good,’” said Arthur miserably, before he could help himself. 

And Cobb laughed at him like he was hilarious before moving away. 

Arthur, aware the tips of his ears were burning pink—Arthur _hated_ his stupid ears—hunched over the Hemingway and ignored the death glares he could feel everyone else sending toward him. Someone muttered something about being the teacher’s pet, which was an old accusation from childhood, and Arthur thought of Eames calling him _pet_ and let Hemingway’s words swim in front of him. 

Arthur stared and stared and stared at the same Hemingway page, reading nothing on it, and finally he gave up and looked up to try to clear his head. 

The game was underway. It had started without his awareness. Arthur knew nothing about lacrosse, besides the vagueness that it involved sticks and scoring with nets. He didn’t need to know anything about lacrosse, he thought. Because what he knew was that Eames was _spectacular_ at it. Of course he was. Basically all of the dying light of the autumn day seemed to collect itself around Eames. He was the center of _everything_. Everyone paid attention to him, listened to him, parted around him, followed his lead. Arthur sat alone on the bleachers with Hemingway on his lap and two stupid eggs next to him and watched Eames look _golden_ on his field. 

He was an idiot, Arthur thought. He was an idiot for _everything_. He had been an idiot for thinking Eames had been genuinely interested in _him_ , had _seen_ him as someone other than The One Who Sits Alone All The Time. And maybe he had also been an idiot for not just sucking it up and not caring why Eames had paid attention to him, as long as it had been someone paying attention, and Eames at that. And maybe he was still an idiot for thinking anything about Eames anymore. Eames was being nice to him because Eames had some kind of reflex for being nice. Or because Eames was making fun of him somehow, because Eames never took anything seriously. Or Eames was just being _British_ , for all Arthur knew about it. 

Whatever. He was a stupid idiot with a stupid hopeless crush on this dazzling comet that had landed in their midst, and every eye in the place was on Eames, and Arthur had not thought it possible for him to feel any lonelier but he suddenly felt much lonelier on those bleachers than he ever did alone in his room. 

Arthur suddenly felt like he couldn’t stay there one minute longer. He tossed the Hemingway into his bag and cradled Chauncey and Petunia carefully and started walking home. 

And then, annoyingly, when he was only about halfway there, Eames’s fancy red car pulled up next to him, keeping pace. “You kidnapped our children,” Eames accused, shouting through the passenger window. 

Fuck, why couldn’t Eames just _go home_ and leave him alone? “Yeah,” said Arthur. “Yeah, I know, I…didn’t feel well and…” Arthur gave up talking because when he talked he said stupid, ridiculous things. 

Eames said, all concern, “Let me give you a ride home.”

“It’s fine. I can watch them tonight and—”

“You don’t feel well. You’ve still got at least twenty minutes of walking to do.” 

“I’m fine, I’m—” Arthur looked up from where he was watching his feet along the sidewalk and said, in alarm, “Jesus Christ, Eames, you’re going to hit that—”

Eames slammed on his brakes just in time to save his car from ramming into the lamppost. “There is never enough space on this side of the car,” Eames ranted, shifting the car into park. 

“Well, if you were looking where you were going,” Arthur snapped at him. 

“Well, if you would just get in the car,” Eames snapped back.

“Fine,” said Arthur, and pulled the passenger door open. “But if your crazy driving kills our children, you’re explaining it to Mr. Cobb.” 

“It isn’t crazy driving, I’m just _British_ ,” said Eames, and shifted the car back into drive. 

It was tense in the car again and Arthur wondered if he was ever going to drive in Eames’s car without it being tense. He said, “The game looked good.” 

“It was fine,” said Eames flatly. 

He didn’t sound like he’d enjoyed it. Arthur was curious. Did people who played sports not enjoy it? He’d always assumed they did. “You seem like you’re good at it.” 

Eames snorted. “I am not as good at it as my father wishes I were.” 

“Oh,” said Arthur awkwardly, not sure what to make of that. 

“Which way, Arthur? This bloody town is a bloody maze.” 

“Left,” said Arthur. “It’s left here. It’s— You don’t have to drive me. Really.” 

“Is this why you don’t go to the games? Because you don’t have a ride?” 

Arthur stared at Eames’s profile for a second, and then he started laughing. He couldn’t help it. He laughed until he couldn’t breathe anymore. 

Eames gave him a quizzical look. “I… Well, I’ve no idea what I did to provoke such a lovely sight as _that_ , but let me give it another try. Why did the chicken cross the road?” 

“What?” said Arthur, confused. 

“To die. In the rain.” 

“Cheerful,” said Arthur, after a second. 

“It’s a Hemingway joke. You like Hemingway, don’t you?”

“I…not particularly,” Arthur admitted, not sure what to make of this. 

“You’re always reading Hemingway.” 

“It’s for AP Lit,” said Arthur. 

“Ah. Right. Well, anyway, we’ve exhausted my Hemingway humor, so thank God you’re not an actual devotee. Why was it so funny? About the games?” 

Arthur shook his head. “What would I do at lacrosse games, Eames?” 

“Look delicious and delightful in the setting sun of late autumn while the breeze ruffles your hair and you spread your legs out in front of you so you can read your intimidating literature on your lap.” Eames stopped his car and looked over at him and smiled. “You could do that.”

Arthur felt shell-shocked. Why did Eames always make him feel like the world was flipping upside-down all around him, like he was living in zero gravity? He couldn’t think of a single thing to say in response to Eames’s comment. 

Eames said, “This is your house, right? Or have I got it totally wrong?” 

Arthur thought to look out the window. “No, it’s my house.” 

“Thank you for watching our children, Arthur,” said Eames, very gravely. 

“Yeah,” said Arthur. “Yeah, I…yeah.” Why didn’t something happen to make Arthur _stop talking_? thought Arthur, wildly. 

And then his mother pulled open the passenger door and ducked in and said to Eames, “Hello! I’m Arthur’s mother!” 

And Arthur remembered why he didn’t believe in God because if God existed, He was an asshole who hated Arthur. 

Eames smiled at her, all ready charm, exactly the type of boy you would like to bring home to your mother, thought Arthur, annoyed. “Hello. I’m Eames. I hate to break it to you like this but your son and I have children together.” 

“So I heard,” said his mother, beaming at him. She actually looked vaguely impressed, like she’d never expected Arthur’s friend to turn out to be _this_. “Where are you from?” 

“London,” said Eames lightly. “New here.” 

“Well, welcome to the neighborhood. We should have you over for dinner.” 

“That would be lovely. I’m expected at home tonight, but really, any other night.” 

“It’s not necessary,” said Arthur, miserable. 

“Nonsense,” said Arthur’s mother firmly. 

“I’d love to come,” said Eames. “Which child would you prefer for the night?” 

“I don’t…” 

“Spend time with Petunia,” Eames said, and plucked Chauncey off of Arthur’s lap and placed him carefully in the free cup holder. Because the other cup holder was occupied with a to-go cup from Arthur’s coffee shop. Probably an old pumpkin spice latte, thought Arthur. 

“Right,” said Arthur stupidly. And then, to his mother, holding up the egg, “This is Petunia.” 

“Isn’t she lovely?” said Arthur’s mother, smile wider than Arthur had ever seen it. 

Which should have made him happy but filled him with dread because she was all excited that Arthur had a friend and Arthur didn’t have a friend, Arthur had a partner for a project that was going to be over in two weeks and then Eames would go back to his popular friends and maybe he’d remember to grunt acknowledgment at Arthur when they passed in the hallways. 

Eames said, “She can be a bit fussy.”

Arthur put an end to this nonsense by saying, “Really, thanks for the ride,” as he got out of the car. 

“Anytime, darling,” said Eames, and winked at him, which was going to send his mother into paroxysms of pleasure, Arthur knew and had no doubt Eames knew as well. 

Arthur glared at him and glanced at his mother, who was walking into the house with Petunia, and then leaned down and said, “You’re an asshole.” 

“Proposition me some other time, petal,” said Eames. 

Arthur slammed the door shut on Eames’s annoying chuckle and watched Eames drive away in his stupid car, and then he walked inside. 

“ _Arthur_ ,” said his mother. “He’s _cute_. And I don’t even just mean— He’s, like, _cute_. Like. _Cute_ , Arthur.” 

“Yes, yes, he’s a fucking movie star,” said Arthur irritably. 

“Arthur,” his mother said harshly. 

“He doesn’t care about me, Mom,” Arthur said, maybe more viciously than was necessary. “He’s teasing me for caring about this egg project.” Arthur took Petunia out of her hand. 

“Really?” His mother folded her arms at him. “Because he just seems like a nice guy to me.” 

“Because you’ve been out of high school too long,” Arthur grumbled cruelly, turning to go upstairs. 

“Arthur,” his mother said sharply, and the tone of voice made him stop and sigh. 

“Sorry,” he said, and he meant it. Eames was wreaking havoc with his emotions and it was exhausting. “I’m sorry.” 

“Sweetheart,” she said gently, which was the last thing he needed to hear, and he tensed against it. “Not everyone is— Sometimes people are just nice. I swear it, Arthur.” 

“Yeah,” said Arthur, lying through his teeth to appease her. “Yeah, I know.”


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

That night his phone lit up with a text. From an unknown number. But it said, _I hope Petunia’s not keeping you up_. So it could only be from Eames. 

Arthur had no clue how he’d gotten his number. 

Arthur stared at the text and thought, _Maybe he’s just nice_. He thought, _Maybe he thinks_ you’re _nice_. Which seemed so ridiculous that Arthur couldn’t wrap his mind around it. 

Arthur didn’t reply. 

***

In the morning his mother didn’t get out of bed and Arthur blamed himself. His mother had been excited about Eames, pleased at this prospect of normality. He should have encouraged it. He shouldn’t have been moody about it. He shouldn’t have made her have to think about how he didn’t trust people to be nice. 

He begged her to get out of bed and get dressed and go to work, and she sprawled there listlessly and barely responded to him. Arthur gave up and went across the street to Mrs. Leverett, who knew all about his mother’s “episodes” and assured him that yes, of course she would sit with her while he was at school, the way she always did. 

So Arthur wasn’t in the mood for Eames when he showed up at his locker for their switch-off. 

Eames said, “Did you get my— Hey, you okay?” 

“Yes,” Arthur said shortly. “Yes, I’m fine. Can we just do this switch-off without the banter?” 

“Do we banter?” Eames asked curiously. 

“You’re trying to banter with me right now,” Arthur pointed out, holding his hand out for Chauncey. 

Eames handed Chauncey over, looking uncertain in the face of Arthur’s mood, and accepted Petunia, and then he said awkwardly, “Okay, then, I guess I’ll just…” He made some kind of motion. 

“Go? Yes, that’s fine,” said Arthur, exhausted, looking at the contents of his locker and trying to remember what his first class was that morning. 

“Arthur,” said Eames, after a moment of silence so long that Arthur actually hadn’t realized he was still standing there. 

Arthur started, looking over at him in surprise. 

“Look,” said Eames, licking his lips as if he was nervous. “I didn’t mean to make things difficult with your mom. I was teasing you, I was— If I crossed the line with your mom, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I—I know how that—I’m so sorry.” 

He looked genuinely apologetic about this, and it was true that Eames was problematic, but he didn’t seem to want to be problematic on _purpose_. So Arthur took pity and said, “No. It’s fine. I’m just…tired.” 

“Well, you didn’t feel well at the game last night,” Eames remarked, reminding Arthur of that convenient lie. 

“Right,” said Arthur. “I’m probably coming down with something.” 

“Probably from the kids,” said Eames. “They’re germ machines.” 

“You’re bantering with me,” said Arthur. 

“Right, but you’re smiling,” said Eames, and, to Arthur’s horror, pressed his thumb up against his cheek. “You’ve got dimples, you know.” 

“I know,” said Arthur, not jerking away from Eames’s touch because he had _no idea_ what to do. “They’re on my face.” 

“Exactly. I thought maybe you hadn’t got to see them before. You don’t seem the type to practice smiling in the mirror.” 

“Why would I…?” asked Arthur, bewildered by _everything_ , by Eames’s confusing conversation and Eames’s thumb along his cheek and _Eames_ being _Eames_ and _existing_. 

“Take care of yourself, darling,” said Eames, and dropped his hand and winked at him again and then moved off down the hallway. 

***

Nothing was better when Arthur got home, not that Arthur had expected it to be. Tomorrow, maybe, he thought. But it always took more than a few hours or so for his mother to cycle out of this. He relieved Mrs. Leverett and tried to interest his mother in dinner. His mother couldn’t even be bothered to put a pillow over her head to shut him out. 

Arthur didn’t feel like eating, either. He sat on the floor in his mother’s bedroom, Chauncey next to him, and tried to read Hemingway by the flickering light of his mother’s television. 

He fucking hated Hemingway. 

His mother wasn’t watching television, she was staring into space, and then eventually, finally, to Arthur’s relief, she fell asleep. Arthur went up to his bedroom to grab a blanket and pillow so he could set up a bed for himself on his mother’s bedroom floor, just to make sure she slept through the night and didn’t try to do anything crazy. Wake up once to your mother emptying a bottle of sleeping pills into her hand and you never made that mistake again, thought Arthur. 

And he probably shouldn’t have thought about that, because that was how he ended up having a strange half-hearted panic attack in the process of pulling his blanket off his bed, and he found himself backed up against his wall, pressing his forehead to his knees and telling himself to _breathe breathe breathe in out in out_ , it wasn’t as hard as it seemed. 

His hand closed itself around his phone and dialed before he knew he intended to do it and it rang and rang and then Eames said, sounding sleepy, like Arthur had just woken him, “Arthur?” 

Oh, Christ, what time was it? Arthur had no idea. Arthur croaked out, “Hi. Hi. Sorry. Just…hi.” 

“What’s wrong?” asked Eames, sounding alarmed, and Arthur wondered how he sounded. 

_My father was an asshole who used to beat my mother up but my mother insists on thinking that his being gone is something we should be depressed about, and it’s possible she’s concerned  
she’s given me a terrible childhood that means I’ll never learn to trust anyone, and I’m having a panic attack on my bedroom floor right now because it’s possible she’s right and nothing will ever change in my life and college won’t make anything better, and I am the loneliest person in the entire universe_, thought Arthur. 

Arthur said, “Banter with me.” It came out as begging, he knew it did, and he didn’t care. 

There was a moment of loaded silence. 

Then Eames said, “Did you break our egg?” 

Arthur choked out laughter. “No, I didn’t—”

“Good. I think the eggs don’t like being separated, you know. I think they know they’re twins. I asked my sisters about it, and my sisters are Twin Authorities, and they say you and I are being very cruel to our eggs. And then they said that we should have had triplets because everybody knows the best omelets are three-egg omelets, and basically my sisters are vicious cannibals and we’re never having them babysit, okay? But, if we did have another one—and I’m not saying we should—I think we should name it Lancelot, for obvious reasons. Or Guinevere. Depending. Although maybe not depending. Maybe Lancelot either way, because fuck gender roles, right? But I do think triplets would be going too far. I try to think of having a third sister, and I think I would stop believing my philosophy about the universe knowing what it’s doing because _three_ of those two would just be more than any universe could handle, they’d bring about the destruction of civilization. I did ask them if they knew any jokes, though, because I don’t really know any and they said, ‘Why is six afraid of seven? Because seven eight nine.’” 

Arthur chuckled a little bit and realized he was breathing. He was just breathing, in and out, in and out. Like it was easy. 

“Okay?” said Eames. 

“Thank you,” said Arthur fervently. 

“Anytime, darling,” said Eames softly. 

Arthur ended the call and sat and took a few more deep breaths, and then he stood up and took his blanket and went back to his mother. And Chauncey. 

***

On Friday Arthur was sitting behind the counter with his college essays in front of him and Petunia settled next to him when a crowd of kids from school came in. Arthur tried not to scowl with annoyance. He was sure he wasn’t successful. 

“Eames keeps raving about the pumpkin spice lattes,” said Yusuf, but he was peering so closely at Arthur that Arthur had the uncomfortable feeling that Yusuf was talking about something else entirely. 

“Yeah, Eames is obsessed with the fucking pumpkin spice lattes,” said Arthur, with a little eye roll.

“Tell me about it,” said Heather, giving Arthur a death glare. 

Arthur actually paused in making their coffees in surprise, because he’d never gotten a death glare full-on to his face like that before. Usually everybody preferred not to so openly acknowledge him. What the hell? 

“So what’s with these stupid eggs?” Heather asked, and poked at Petunia, who rolled precariously.

Arthur grabbed for her and took her over to a safer part of the counter. Then he frowned at Heather. “You’re in that class with me, you know. You’re supposed to be taking care of an egg, too.” 

“It’s stupid. The rest of us are all just going to lie about it. You’re the only one taking it seriously, and now you’ve got Eames all obsessed with his stupid egg, too.” 

“They have _names_ ,” said Arthur, and even as he said it he wondered when he’d lost his mind. 

“What the fuck, you’re both insane,” complained Heather. 

Yusuf said, “Hey. Leave him alone, that’s enough. Go outside, I’ll pay and meet you there.” 

Heather rolled her eyes extravagantly but went out with the rest of the group. 

Yusuf handed Arthur a debit card, and as he ran it Yusuf said, “Listen, I…”

Arthur looked up at him, handing the debit card back and waiting for the rest of whatever Yusuf was about to say. 

“Yeah,” Yusuf said. “Thanks for the lattes.” Yusuf took his receipt and gave Arthur a little wave as he left. 

“Strange night,” Arthur told Petunia, who looked sympathetic. 

And then Eames walked in. 

“Hey,” Arthur said in surprise. “You just missed everybody.” 

“Yeah, I saw them. Can I have one of my usuals?” 

Arthur lifted his eyebrows. “One of your usuals?” 

“Arthur, darling, do not make me beg for my pumpkin spice latte,” said Eames, with exaggerated puppy-dog eyes. 

Arthur shook his head and made the latte and found Eames colonizing a corner of the coffee shop, textbooks spread out, laptop set up, Chauncey settled next to him. Arthur stared and said, “What are you doing?” 

“Homework,” said Eames, tapping at his laptop. 

“On a Friday night?”

“Okay, you got me, it’s really porn. But I _look_ really responsible and productive, don’t I?” 

“Eames. I’m serious. What are you doing?” 

“The kids wanted to be together,” said Eames. 

“I don’t get why you’re so…” Arthur trailed off. He didn’t even know what to call it. Eames was nice. Eames was beyond nice. Eames had talked him through a panic attack and had never even brought it back up. 

“What am I being?” Eames demanded, sounding miffed. “I’ve never been anything but nice to you.” 

“Yes,” Arthur agreed, bewildered. “I know. That’s what I mean. You’re _nice_.” 

Eames stared up at him. And then Eames said, “Arthur. Darling. Why does everyone have to have an ulterior motive with you?”

“Sometimes people are just nice,” said Arthur numbly. 

“Arthur, you didn’t let me finish that night. I thought you looked lonely—”

Arthur bristled at the reminder. 

Eames held up his hand to ward him off. “—and I thought, ‘Capital. Someone to talk to,’ because I was dying of loneliness, too.” 

“You’re not lonely,” was the only thing Arthur could think to say. “You’re the most popular person at school.” 

“Arthur, I just _got_ here. How can I be popular? Nobody here knows me. Nobody knows anything about me. I’m new, and I’m different, and it’s all exotic, like I’m some animal in a zoo, and you think it’s so easy, do you, switching schools in the last year, switching _countries_ , and you think because I play lacrosse, because I look like I fit in, that I’m not bloody lonely? I am miles away from everything familiar, and I came in that night and you were here and you looked like maybe you’d understand that feeling of being utterly _lost_ in the middle of a crowd. I don’t have an ulterior motive, Arthur. I just like you. I just bloody _like_ you.” 

Arthur stared down at him, trying to breathe. 

“Also,” added Eames, “do think of our children and how much they’d like for us to be together.” 

Arthur put Eames’s pumpkin spice latte down on the table. He tried to think what to say. He ended up with, “On the house.” 

And maybe Eames understood that Arthur couldn’t put into words everything he’d wanted to put into words, because Eames smiled at him and said, “Cheers.” 

***

It was nice to have Eames there. Eames was good company. And they didn’t even _talk_. They sat at adjacent tables with their eggs between them, and Arthur worked on his college essays and Eames did whatever it was he was doing, and Arthur kept pumpkin spice lattes and teas coming for them and every once in a great while got up to wait on a customer. 

Eames said, eventually, after hours of companionable silence between them, “Where do you want to go to university?” 

“I don’t know,” answered Arthur. 

“You don’t know?” 

Arthur shrugged. “Wherever will take me.” 

“You’re spending this long slaving over your college essay, and you don’t even care where you go?” 

“Of course I care where I go,” Arthur retorted. “I care that it’s far away from here.” 

“How long have you lived here?” asked Eames. 

“My entire life,” said Arthur, because everyone knew everything about Arthur, about Arthur’s father leaving, about Arthur’s mother never being totally the same. Everyone knew everything but the secret Arthur guarded so carefully on his mother’s behalf. 

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” said Eames. 

“I don’t think so.”

“I mean, that you lived in one place your whole life, so you can’t wait to live somewhere else. Whereas we moved around all my life, so I wish I could just stay _still_ for a second. Just…stay still and try to get my bearings. You know? But you have your bearings. You know exactly what you want.” 

Arthur considered. “No, I don’t,” he said. “I just know what I _don’t_ want. I just want something different. I want it to be different.” He paused. “I think it’s going to be better.” 

“Better. Do things get better than being seventeen with our whole lives in front of us?” 

“God, I hope so,” said Arthur. 

Eames smiled a sad little smile and said, “Yeah, me, too.” 

And Arthur _hated_ that sad little smile, so Arthur moved Chauncey and Petunia out of the way and kissed him. 

It wasn’t like kissing Eames the first time, against the door, or at his house, when everything had been frantic and the edges had been sharp. This was soft, like sinking in. Arthur had thought falling in love would feel like flinging yourself off a building. He’d thought that was why it was called _falling_. But that was wrong, he thought. Falling in love was like crawling under a blanket and tucking it all around you and redefining what the parameters of your world were going to be. It was saying, _you_ and _you_ and _you_ , with every breath, and the blanket settled more heavily around you. 

Arthur kissed Eames like that, gentle and careful and _loud_ , oh so loud with the things Arthur couldn’t say, until the bell on the door jangled, and then he pulled away to wait on a customer who looked vaguely disapproving at having walked in to find two boys making out in the corner. 

“Sorry,” said Arthur, embarrassed, sure he was blushing as he made the coffee. A fucking pumpkin spice latte, what was _with_ those stupid things? 

And when the customer left, Arthur looked over at Eames, and Eames smiled at him, and Arthur commenced to cleaning up for closing without thinking about the red state of the tips of his ears. 

Eames kissed him up against his car, and Arthur pulled Eames’s coat open, tucked himself into it, spread his hands on Eames’s chest and felt the thudding of his heart. 

“Come home with me,” Eames said between kisses. “We’ll do better than last time.” 

“I can’t,” Arthur said, and his stomach literally twisted with the effort of having to say it, but he thought of Mrs. Leverett with his mother at home. “I can’t. My mother…I…God, I want to, Eames, I fucking _want_ to, I can’t—”

“Hey,” said Eames, sounding surprised. “It’s fine. I’m not offended.” 

Arthur pressed his forehead to Eames’s shoulder, feeling embarrassed. Why couldn’t he just make things be _easy_? Why was he always making things _hard_? “You’re…” he said, and shuddered suddenly, because he didn’t even know what he wanted to tell Eames he was. 

“Let me drive you home then, love,” said Eames into his hair. 

_Love_ , thought Arthur, and shuddered again. “I’ve got a bike here and I should just…I should just…” Arthur straightened in sudden alarm. “Oh my God, we left the eggs in the coffee shop.” 

And then Eames was laughing hysterically as Arthur unlocked the coffee shop and retrieved their eggs, and Arthur kept hissing at him that it _wasn’t funny_ , they were their _children_ , and Eames caught him and trapped him and kissed him and kissed him and kissed him while Arthur tried to keep their children safe from the crush of their bodies. Eames said, “I am absolutely, positively crazy about you, Arthur,” and Arthur said, on a whoosh of shocked air, “I…should go…” because he was an idiot, but Eames kissed the tip of his nose and said, “Yes, you should. I’ll take Petunia, she’s my favorite.” 

And when Arthur got home there was a text from Eames. _I let u ride off into the night with our son. I am startlingly irresponsable._

Arthur put the phone on the sink in his bathroom and walked all around it, fretting. Eames seemed so easy when Arthur was _with_ him, and now all Arthur could think was he’d never had anyone claim to be crazy about him before and he was going to ruin all of it; Eames couldn’t be serious, Arthur must have tricked him or something, somehow. 

Arthur wasn’t going to text back. He _wasn’t_ going to text back. 

Arthur texted back, _We’re both safe._

And then, because maybe Eames would like to know, _Irresponsible is spelled with an i._

Eames texted back almost immediately. _Ur a condescending prick and I am mad for u. :) :) :)_

Arthur slept with his stupid fucking phone under his _pillow_. 

***

The next day his mother was better. Finally, finally better. She went to the salon to have her hair done as if nothing had happened at all, and Arthur breathed deeply and aired out the bedroom. 

When he was done, his phone was flashing a text. _When do u work 2day?_

Would it really take so much effort to write _you_ and _to_ , thought Arthur. He texted back, _Tonight_. 

And then his phone rang. 

Arthur stared at it but he couldn’t pretend not to be near it, he had just texted him. 

So he answered. 

“So tell me what you’re doing with your day, darling,” said Eames. “Are you working on your essays?” 

“I’m…taking care of Chauncey,” said Arthur. As if he ever had _plans_. 

Eames said, “I hear this foliage you lot have here is supposed to be something.” 

“I guess,” said Arthur, who had never cared at all about trees. 

“I would go and look at it, but I don’t trust my terrible driving out of the city with our Petunia.” 

“Do you want me to watch Petunia?” asked Arthur, perplexed.

“No, petal, I want you to come with us,” said Eames, sounding amused. 

“Oh,” said Arthur stupidly. Was this a date? Was Eames asking him out on a date? 

“Come show me some foliage, darling,” said Eames. 

“I don’t know where to find the foliage,” said Arthur. 

“Arthur,” Eames sighed, “get ready, I’m picking you up in twenty minutes.” 

Arthur stood staring at his phone for a little while, and then he realized that _he was going on a date_. What were you supposed to do before you went on a date? Arthur could think of nothing to do but take a shower. Even though he’d just taken a shower. 

“What are you doing?” he said out loud, once he was in the shower, and shut it off and stepped back out. “Idiot, idiot, idiot,” he told himself, and hunted through all of his clothing. He liked clothes. He didn’t own a lot, but what he owned was nice. He couldn’t equal Eames in a lot of things, but he could match him in clothing. He found the navy blue cashmere sweater he’d treated himself to last Christmas and that he had literally _never worn_ , because it had seemed too nice, too special, to be tainted with school. He looked at it for a second, and then he tore the tags off with his teeth and pulled it over his head and looked at himself in the mirror. He’d do, he thought. He had to do, there was nothing else he could do about the way he looked. He’d shaved that morning, so that was taken care of. His hair was a mess and he hastily tried to comb it someway that made some sort of sense. 

The doorbell rang, and Arthur jumped a mile and stared at himself in the mirror, wide-eyed, and thought, _Oh, my God, am I supposed to bring condoms? Am I supposed to bring lube?_ And then almost laughed at himself. He was being _hysterical_ , he thought. 

His phone rang, and he grabbed for it on the bathroom counter. “I’m coming,” he assured Eames breathlessly. 

“Excellent, because otherwise I was going to have to break into your house, which I _can_ do, just so you know.” 

“Right,” said Arthur, shutting off the light as he left the bathroom. “What am I supposed to bring? Should I bring anything?” 

“A picnic lunch, I thought.” 

Arthur froze halfway down the hallway. “I don’t…I don’t…” Fuck, he had nothing in the house they could use for a picnic lunch. 

“Arthur, I’m joking. Obviously.” Eames sounded quizzical. “What is it you’re doing in there? Come and open this door.” 

“Right, I’m…” He realized Eames had hung up on him. “Get it together,” he told himself. “He likes you. Oh my God, that makes it worse, he _likes_ you. Shut up, shut up, stop talking to yourself.” He took a deep breath and jogged down the stairs and opened the front door. 

Eames lifted his eyebrows and said, “Darling. Not that you’re not worth the wait, but it’s just a drive, love. I swear.” 

“No, I know,” said Arthur, alarmed at how breathless he sounded. 

“Well, you look lovely.” 

“Do I?” said Arthur dubiously, and looked down at his cashmere sweater. “I don’t know, am I overdressed?” 

“Arthur, fetch Chauncey and your coat,” said Eames firmly. 

So Arthur did. He closed the front door and said, “Oh, fuck, I didn’t leave a note for my mother, she’ll wonder—”

And then his mother drove up. Arthur couldn’t tell if this was good luck or bad luck. 

But his mother came out of the car beaming and looking put-together, and Arthur breathed again. 

His mother said, “Eames! How lovely to see you again!” 

“Hello,” said Eames, beaming back. “Arthur has volunteered to show the children and I some of the lovely foliage.” 

“The children and me,” Arthur heard himself say, and was then horrified at himself. 

Eames just laughed and said, “Yes. Right. The children and me.” 

“Oh, that sounds like a marvelous way to spend this beautiful Saturday,” said his mother, as if everything was right with the world. “You should take him to Monument Park.” 

“Right,” said Arthur. “Yeah. Good idea.” 

“Text if you’re going to be too late,” his mother said cheerfully. “Have a good time, boys!” 

Eames was already moving toward his car. Arthur watched his mother put her key in the lock and said cautiously, “You’ll be okay?” 

“Fine, Arthur,” she said firmly, flatly, and walked into the house. 

Arthur looked after her. 

Eames called his name from by the car, and he turned and caught the keys Eames tossed to him. 

“You drive. Safer for the children and _me_.” 

Arthur took a deep breath and got in the car and drove. Monument Park was a good idea, he thought, so that was where he headed. 

Eames was busy fiddling with his phone, and then the car filled with music, drums and guitars. 

“What do you prefer?” he asked. 

“For?” said Arthur, concentrating on the road. 

“Music.” 

“Oh, I don’t care,” said Arthur. 

“You don’t _care_? You don’t care about _music_? _Arthur_. My _heart_.” Eames fell back dramatically against the passenger seat. 

Great, he’d already said something wrong. “No, I care. I mean, of course I care. I, um, I don’t know. The Beatles?” 

“Arthur, stop the car,” said Eames. 

Fabulous, he’d already fucked it up, thought Arthur, and pulled the car over and said, “Look—”

Eames caught him up and kissed him. 

Arthur’s foot slipped on the brake and the car rolled and Arthur pulled away and said, “Fuck,” hastily slamming his foot back down and shifting the car into park. “Don’t do that when—” Eames swallowed the rest of what Arthur was going to say, practically crawling over onto Arthur’s seat with him and kissing him up against the door. They were still in Arthur’s _neighborhood_. Arthur had no idea what people who saw him were going to say and he also didn’t fucking care, he would have pulled Eames directly onto his lap if there’d been room with the steering wheel in the way. 

Eames pulled back a breath and said, “I’m going to find some Spotify playlist called ‘Coffee Shop’ or something to make you relax. You’re going to drive us somewhere so we can see some fucking leaves.” 

Arthur nodded breathlessly.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

It turned out that Eames had brought a picnic lunch. Literally a picnic basket. Arthur stared at it when Eames retrieved it from the back seat. 

“You…” 

“Picnic lunch, love,” Eames confirmed, holding up the basket and tucking Petunia into his coat pocket, which left Arthur with Chauncey. He locked up Eames’s car and followed Eames, who was already picking his way carefully down the leaf-strewn rocks toward the water. “This place is _beautiful_ ,” he was saying enthusiastically. “Absolutely _gorgeous_. I love it here!” 

“Do you really?” asked Arthur, because it was just the park everyone went to in the summertime. You could swim and boat and stuff in the water, and Arthur was honestly bored by the place. Although it was slightly better in the fall, without the crowds. They had the place to themselves. 

“Don’t you? Look at it.” Eames pointed, as if Arthur had somehow not thought to look at the lake surrounded by vibrant trees, their images mirrored back at them in the water. 

“It’s, um,” said Arthur eloquently. 

“The soul of a poet, you have,” said Eames fondly. 

“Oh, yeah, and you quote Shakespeare all the time,” said Arthur, nonetheless stung by the comment. 

Eames stopped walking and looked very seriously at Arthur. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” he said. “Because it’s not as fucking beautiful as this place. There you go. Sonnet 33.” 

“You are truly a credit to your country,” said Arthur, and suddenly, just like that, Eames was kissing him, backing him up until he hit a tree, and then Eames made a sound of approval and sank against him and kept kissing him. “You’re going to crush our children,” Arthur mumbled. 

Eames chuckled and drew back and said, “You’re right. Let’s have a picnic.” 

Eames spread a blanket on the ground like a delighted little boy, and Arthur unpacked the contents of the picnic basket. Which turned out to be…a bag of potato chips. 

“This isn’t a picnic lunch,” Arthur said. 

“Yes, it is.” Eames ripped open the bag. “We’re eating outside on a blanket. It’s the very definition of ‘picnic lunch.’” 

“We’re eating chips. That’s not a lunch.”

“Uh-uh.” Eames waggled his finger at Arthur. “We’re eating crisps, not chips. Children, do not pick up your father’s appalling American vocabulary.” 

Arthur settled on the ground and said wryly, “Yes, by all means, instead let’s let your father teach us all about the timelessly beautiful words of Shakespeare.” He looked up at the sky over his head, a bright brilliant blue in the crisp autumn air. He could hear birds chirping, and the gentle lap of the water against the shore, and Eames munching enthusiastically on his chips, and maybe there was something to be said for nature. 

Eames settled against him. Okay, there was definitely something to be said about nature. 

“Nature’s not so bad,” said Arthur.

Eames chuckled. “Did you bring your Hemingway?” 

“Was I supposed to bring it?” Arthur asked, unsure. 

“Arthur.” Eames propped himself up suddenly and looked down at him. “Do you think you’re being graded all the time?” 

Arthur had never thought about it. He blinked up at Eames and considered. 

“Because, for the record, you’ve already got an A with me, okay? No more tests or pop quizzes or whatever. You’ve passed, all right?” 

“An A,” said Arthur, looking up at him. “But I was going for an A+.” 

Eames laughed at him, and Arthur felt warm all over, despite the chill in the air. And then Eames leaned down and rubbed his nose against Arthur’s, and Arthur’s breath caught because Eames had been kissing him all day but suddenly this simple movement felt _different_. 

“Arthur,” said Eames, his voice a low growl, and Arthur’s breath quickened and his heart pounded and Eames said, “I am going to ravish you now. If that’s okay with you.” 

“I didn’t bring—” Arthur managed. 

Eames shook his head. “Not a test, Arthur.” He shifted, straddling Arthur, and he should have been heavy, he _was_ heavy, but Arthur had never felt anything as divine as Eames’s weight settling over him. Eames leaned over him, bracing himself on his arms, and said, “It’s not a test.” 

“Right,” Arthur said uncertainly, because seventeen years of constant responsibility died hard. “I know. But you’re clean, right?” 

“I am, yes, but I didn’t say I was going to fuck you, Arthur, I said I was going to ravish you.” 

“This must be fancy British vocabulary,” said Arthur, feeling out of his depth, because Eames was _beautiful_ and _Eames_ , and no matter what he said this was clearly going to be a test and Arthur was clearly going to fail. 

“Arthur,” said Eames, on a chuckle, his name so warm, and Arthur could fall into that, sink into that, let the warmth of the sound of his name in Eames’s voice catch him and wrap him up and keep him safe forever. 

_Sometimes things are just nice, Arthur_ , he told himself as Eames kissed him. Eames’s hands stroked over his sweater and then underneath it, spreading over Arthur’s ribcage, stroking up his chest. Arthur tangled his hands into Eames’s hair and tried to meet him kiss for kiss. Eames made a noise in his throat, one of his hands slipping over to Arthur’s hip, and Arthur realized he’d hooked a leg around Eames’s waist without even realizing it. Eames’s hand stroked down over Arthur’s thigh, to the bend of his knee where it was now resting familiarly against Eames’s waist. Then it came back up, pushing Arthur’s sweater up with it as it went. 

Arthur panted against Eames’s mouth, feeling embarrassingly wrecked for just the bit of kissing they were doing, but luckily Eames seemed just as gone, just as desperate, his kisses suddenly sloppy and uncoordinated. 

“I can’t,” he said, and Arthur almost seized up with panic. Then he said, “I can’t handle this jumper, you look bloody fantastic in this jumper.” 

“Get it off me,” was all Arthur could say, and it was _cashmere_ , and he didn’t care, he wriggled out of his coat and then out of the sweater and Eames tossed it away and nosed his way over Arthur’s chest, biting and licking and nibbling. Arthur kept his hands in Eames’s hair, grounding himself in it, and arched restlessly, looking for friction Eames wasn’t giving him. “Eames,” he said, in annoyance that sounded more like a plea. 

“A second,” Eames gasped against him. “Give me a second. I’m not done here.” And he licked a wet strip along the trail of hair leading down from Arthur’s navel, finally following it with his hand, which he rested on Arthur’s abdomen. And then he didn’t move. 

Arthur lifted his head and looked down at him, hovering directly over his crotch. Should that be as hot as Arthur was finding it, or should it just look comical? Arthur had no idea. But he felt cold with uncertainty all of a sudden. 

“If you don’t want to,” he said. 

Eames actually laughed. “Arthur, we have the opposite problem of me _not wanting_ to. You’re so fucking gorgeous I can’t…” Eames’s gaze traveled up Arthur’s chest suddenly, meeting Arthur’s eyes. Then he held up his hand, out toward Arthur. “Bite it,” he said. 

Arthur blinked. “What?” 

“Bite my hand.” 

“Okay,” said Arthur slowly. “Is this—”

“I don’t know if this is real. I feel like I could be dreaming. Bite my hand.” 

Arthur delicately closed his teeth around Eames’s index finger. 

Eames shuddered. “I don’t think that helped clarify things,” he managed. 

But now Arthur was fascinated. He pulled Eames’s index finger into his mouth and sucked on it. Eames made a noise that was basically a whimper. Arthur nipped at the pad of it, and Eames’s eyes fluttered closed. Arthur swirled his tongue up and over the knuckle, and Eames put his forehead on Arthur’s stomach and breathed out a swear. Arthur, enjoying himself now, caught a hand around Eames’s wrist and moved onto the next finger. Eames, with his free hand, unbuttoned Arthur’s jeans and said, his voice nothing but a rasp, “What do you want?” 

Arthur would have had to take Eames’s hand out of his mouth to answer, and he wasn’t about to do that, so instead he pulled just the tip of Eames’s ring finger into his mouth, just to the first knuckle, and laved his tongue around it liberally, before sinking it further in by degrees. Eames lifted an eyebrow at him, and Arthur grinned around his finger and then sucked hard around it. Eames grinned back, and then there was air, shockingly cold against the heat of him, and then there was Eames’s mouth. And he took direction astonishingly well, up until the moment when Arthur couldn’t keep it up anymore, let Eames’s finger drop from his mouth because he needed to gasp for air, needed needed _needed_. 

He said Eames’s name, breathless and earnest, over and over and over, and underneath him the world swirled off of its axis and Eames held him steady, Eames, with his hands on Arthur’s hips now, with his mouth pushing Arthur to the edge and then through it and then settling him down from it, slowly, slowly, slowly, sinking. 

“Fucking hell,” gasped Eames into Arthur’s sweat-sheened stomach, heaving for breath underneath him. 

Arthur couldn’t say anything. Arthur couldn’t catch his breath. Arthur literally couldn’t _breathe_. Arthur was…not having a panic attack. Arthur was happy. Arthur was incandescent with happiness. Arthur felt he was going to burst with it. He didn’t know people could feel this way. He had never felt so _not lonely_ in his life. 

He petted his hands through Eames’s hair, looking down at the head resting on his abdomen, and he thought he might cry, which was the most embarrassing thing in the _world_. So instead he said, “C+.”

“What?” said Eames, after a second. 

“C+. In case you thought I was grading.” 

Eames lifted his head up and stared at him. “ _C_ +?” 

And then Arthur laughed. He couldn’t help it. He rolled around in laughter. Eames shook his head at him and moved up his body and said, “C+, huh? Suddenly you’re a comedian?” 

Arthur laughed. Arthur thought he might never stop laughing. Arthur wrapped his arms around Eames and pulled him down and kissed him and thought _I love you I love you I love you_. 

Only Eames mumbled into their kisses, “I love you, too. I love you, too. I do.” 

So maybe he hadn’t been thinking it.

Arthur pushed Eames up and over and looked down at him and tried to breathe and thought he might never breathe again and that would be fine, Eames made breathing hard in the very best way. Arthur thought he should take his time the way Eames had with him, that he should make him feel adored and worshiped, but instead Arthur went for his jeans and swallowed him down without letting himself think about it, and Arthur thought he’d be lucky to get a C+ for the whole messy thing but Eames said his name like a prayer and afterward pulled him heavily and clumsily in against him, and Arthur tucked his head up under Eames’s chin and turned his face into Eames and thought of how he couldn’t imagine anything better than this. 

***

Eames said he would come to work with Arthur, he just needed to grab some work to do while Arthur was working. So Arthur found himself back at Eames’s enormous house. 

“Girls, say hello to Arthur,” called Eames toward the back of the house. 

“Hello, Arthur!” the girls called back. 

Eames went up the stairs. 

Arthur hung back, unsure. 

Eames turned back. “Oh, suddenly now you have boundaries? You didn’t have boundaries with my fingers in your mouth.” 

“Shh,” Arthur hissed at him, feeling the tips of his ears go red. 

Eames grinned at him. “Come on,” he said. “Bring the kids.” 

Arthur carried their eggs up the stairs and into the room Eames disappeared into. 

The room was enormous and not at all what Arthur had expected. Well, it was a mess, and Arthur had expected that, clothes thrown everywhere, but what attracted Arthur’s attention, what was so unexpected, was that it was covered in art. Sketches and paintings lined the walls haphazardly, every spare inch covered. They carpeted the floor as well, laid out in careful mosaic patterns in the corners, clothes kept away from them. Arthur stared as Eames tossed clothes every which way. 

“Why do books always hide underneath clothing?” asked Eames. 

Arthur looked at the art, all of it with a tiny, unobtrusive _E_ in the lower right-hand corner. “Eames,” Arthur said slowly. 

Eames grunted. 

“Eames, did you _do_ these?” 

“Um,” said Eames. 

Arthur looked over his shoulder, surprised that Eames looked uncomfortable. 

“I,” said Eames, and looked helplessly at the art. 

Arthur didn’t get it. He looked, too, and all he saw was… _genius_. “But, Eames, it’s beautiful. It’s…” 

“Do you think so?” asked Eames awkwardly. 

Arthur stared at all of it. It _was_ beautiful, but it was more than that, it was… It was _Eames_. It was incredibly beautiful, but so much more than that, so much complexity, drawing him in. Arthur wanted to stand there and sink into the art the way he’d sunk into Eames. “It’s you,” he said on a breath. 

“Arthur,” said Eames, which was all the warning Arthur had before Eames crushed him up against the wall of art and kissed the life out of him. 

“You’re ruining the art,” Arthur said, holding their eggs up out of the way and kissing him back. 

“I’ll make you more,” Eames promised. 

And then one of Eames’s sisters burst in and said quickly, “Eames, Dad just got home.”

And just like that Eames stepped back, away, swearing, fiddling with his hair and his clothes. “Oh, Christ, what do we look like?” he muttered, and swiped a hand over Arthur’s hair, as if he was trying to smooth it down. 

“Eames?” Arthur said, confused. 

“Hide,” Eames said. “You need to hide.” 

“Hide?” echoed Arthur, and then Eames shoved him into the closet. 

The closet was a crowded mess, Arthur barely fit, and he couldn’t _hear_ anything. There was the buzz of voices, but Arthur couldn’t hear a word. How much longer was he going to be stuck in this closet? 

Then, finally, Eames opened it, looking anxious. “You’re not claustrophobic, are you?”

Arthur said, “Your father doesn’t know you’re gay, does he?” 

Eames said, “It’s complicated.” 

Arthur said, “Saturday night shifts have a lot of downtime.” 

***

Somehow they ended up driving Eames’s sisters to a sleepover, which meant there was no opportunity for them to talk before they dropped them off, and then afterward they were close enough to the coffee shop that neither of them felt like starting. 

In fact, Arthur had already made Eames his pumpkin spice latte before Eames started talking. 

“He says I’m doing it to get back at him,” Eames said. “Because I’m resentful over how much we move around.” 

“Are you?” asked Arthur, trying to sound even and not like his entire life was caught up in not being some kind of _revenge_ Eames was wreaking. He was busy steeping a cup of tea. Steeping cups of tea was his favorite thing to do when his life was falling apart. 

“No. It doesn’t have anything to do with him. Nothing in my life has anything to do with him, and that drives him crazy about me. He thinks I was supposed to be a little clone. Same name and everything. As if there was nothing about myself that was ever going to belong to _me_. Is your dad like that?” 

Arthur watched himself steeping the tea leaves, up and down, up and down. “My dad left when I was six.”

“Oh,” said Eames, after a moment of silence. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be. It was a relief because it meant I didn’t have to watch him beat up my mom anymore.” 

“Arthur,” said Eames, after another moment of silence. 

“It was a long time ago,” Arthur said, and took the tea leaves out. “I can’t believe no one told you. Not about the abuse part—no one knows—but how he left. Nobody looked at me for _years_ without pitying whispers behind my back as soon as it was turned.” 

Eames didn’t say anything for a moment, and Arthur braced himself for whatever was coming next. Then Eames said, “I made a deal with him.” 

Arthur was relieved. He took the cup of tea over to Eames’s table, and said, “With your father?” He sat at the table, but he didn’t feel quite capable of looking at Eames. 

“I could keep the art if I…stopped being gay.” 

“How do you stop being gay?” asked Arthur. 

“You don’t. He’s an idiot. But I figured if I could pretend for long enough…Arthur, I can’t lose the art. He did it to me once before, a couple of years ago, he went through and threw everything out and I thought…I thought I was going to _die_ , Arthur. I know that sounds melodramatic, but I couldn’t _breathe_ without it. I couldn’t—” Eames took a sudden strangled breath. 

Arthur understood sudden strangled breaths. Arthur took his hand and finally looked at him and said, “Hey. You’ve got one more year, right? Not even. A few more months. You’ll keep the art and then we’ll go somewhere together and it’ll be better.” 

Eames stared at him and said, after a second, “How are you so… _strong_? You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

“I’m a fucking mess,” Arthur said bluntly. 

“You’re not,” said Eames, and clung to his hand. “You’re _amazing_.” 

“Stop it,” said Arthur, uncomfortable. “You’re being idiotic.” 

Eames grinned at him, and it was good to see that grin. “It’s just that I’m besotted,” he said, very gravely. “You’ve bewitched me.” 

“Idiot,” said Arthur.

The bell on the door jangled, and Arthur sighed and disentangled their hands and said, “What can I—”

He wasn’t even halfway out of the chair before the man who’d walked in swept every single thing off the table he and Eames were sitting at, Arthur’s fresh cup of tea and Eames’s half-drunk latte tumbling to the ground in spills of dangerously hot liquid and shards of broken porcelain. 

Arthur jumped backward in alarm, clattering his chair over. “What the—”

“Dad,” said Eames, which explained _everything_. 

Arthur looked at the man who had walked in, really _looked_ at him, for the first time. He looked like Eames, a little bit, now that Arthur knew, but really not much at all. Really not at all, thought Arthur. 

“Who are you?” the man demanded of Arthur. 

“Leave him alone,” Eames said sharply, and Arthur was dimly aware of Eames scrambling up from his chair. 

“You know,” Arthur said, amazed at how preternaturally calm he felt, “you’re going to pay for those drinks. And the cups.” 

“No,” Eames’s father snapped, and then turned to Eames and pointed at him. “ _You’re_ going to pay for them.”

“Right,” Eames said, his hands up in supplication. “Absolutely. I’ll pay for the drinks. No big deal.” 

Arthur wanted to snap that it _was_ a big deal and Eames wasn’t paying for the drinks because Eames hadn’t acted like a lunatic just now, but Arthur thought maybe he’d already made things as bad as they needed to be tonight, so he just bit out, “Did you want something to drink? Or did you just come in here to make a mess?” Okay, maybe that wasn’t making things better.

Eames gave him a pleading look. 

Eames’s father said, “What the bloody fuck are those things?” and pointed. 

Arthur turned his head and looked at Chauncey and Petunia, settled on the couch where Eames had been sitting. 

Eames was the one who answered. He said, “They’re egg babies. They’re for a project for school.” 

“ _Egg babies_ ,” Eames’s father sounded disbelieving. “You’ve got _egg babies_. With _him_.” 

Eames was frowning. He said, “It’s not his fault. We were randomly assigned—”

“Randomly assigned to sit here in a coffee shop jerking each other off?” 

“I don’t know what you think was happening here—” Arthur started. 

“I know exactly what was happening here,” Eames’s father snapped at him, “because I know my son and I know exactly the kind of stunts he pulls when he feels like he’s not getting enough attention. Well, Thomas, Junior, you have my attention. What is it that you feel I’ve been remiss at this time? Have I not coddled you about your sodding egg babies enough? Well, look how lovely they are. Aren’t they _charming_ and _delightful_.” 

It happened so quickly, so out of the blue, that afterward Arthur couldn’t believe it really _had_ happened. But Eames’s father picked up the eggs and dropped them. Just like that. _Dropped_ them. They broke on the floor at Arthur’s feet. 

Eames made a terrible, terrible sound, almost like a sob. Arthur stared at the destroyed eggs on the floor and tried to think past his horror. 

Eames said, “How could you do that? Those were _Arthur’s_. For a _project_ —”

And then Eames’s father backhanded Eames with a casualness that made Arthur’s blood run cold. Eames staggered backwards, up against the wall, hand against his face and eyes completely and utterly shocked, and Arthur found he could think again. Arthur found he could think quite well, in fact. Arthur, who had had years of self-defense lessons just in case his father ever showed up again. Arthur stepped forward and took the hand that had just slapped Eames and curved it up and behind Eames’s father’s back. For a second he just looked at him in slack-jawed shock, and then Arthur smiled at him and pulled up and back and Eames’s father crumpled to his knees with a cry. 

Arthur leaned over him and said quietly, “Touch him, or anything important to him, ever again, and I’ll kill you.” 

Eames’s father stared at him, then nodded hastily. 

“Good,” said Arthur, and let go of his arm. “Get out.” 

It was difficult for Eames’s father to make a dignified exit. Arthur didn’t even think he tried, frankly. 

Eames stared at him from where he was still up against the wall, hand still on his face. “ _Arthur_ ,” he said. “What the _fuck_.” 

“We’re closing up early,” announced Arthur.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whaaaaaat? It's already the end???? 
> 
> Yes. Sorry about that. :-)
> 
> THANK YOU for coming along for the ride! Thank you to everyone who acted as a sanity check for me with this fic, among them knackorcraft, mykmykmyk, and bluebatwings (is that everyone? maybe? I think? This was literally the second fic I ever wrote for them? I think? Is that right? I think it is. So I was nervous). Thank you as always to arctacuda for the brilliant-as-ever beta. :-)

Chapter Six

“You’re, like, some kind of dangerous criminal, aren’t you?” Eames was babbling at him as Arthur drove them to Arthur’s house. 

“Stop talking, Eames,” Arthur said, because he thought Eames might be on the verge of some kind of hysterical breakdown. 

“You’re on some kind of, like, most-wanted list,” said Eames. “I knew it. I knew you were hiding all these delicious little secrets under your bland and respectable act.” 

“Now you’ve found me out, I’ll have to kill you,” said Arthur, deadpan, since Eames apparently wasn’t going to stop talking.

“Where do you hide your gun?” asked Eames. “You’re going to kill me anyway, you might as well tell me.” 

“The Hemingway book,” said Arthur. “It’s hollowed out.” 

“I knew it,” said Eames, and then, suddenly sounding exhausted, “I knew it.” Arthur heard his head bump up against the window and looked over at him. He was staring out at the passing city morosely. 

Eames’s phone started ringing. And kept ringing. Arthur parked in front of his house and dug into Eames’s pocket for it. Eames didn’t stop him. Arthur answered it and said, “Stop calling,” and then hung up. 

“I want to say CIA,” said Eames weakly, “but I bet it’s nothing respectable.” 

“Eames, call your sisters for me. Make sure they’re still at their friend’s house. Make sure they stay there.” 

Eames blinked at him for a second, then said, “Christ, I didn’t even _think_ about that. Bloody—”

“That’s why you have me. Call them.” 

Eames called them, then frowned and looked at his phone. “My father on the other line.” 

“Ignore him.” 

Eames put the phone back to his ear, said, “Emily. It’s me. Are you still at Callie’s?” Eames listened for a second. “Good. Stay there, okay? Don’t go home. Not without me. If Mom or Dad come, don’t go with them. Wait for me.” Another pause. “Everything’s fine, I just— Trust me, yeah?” Another pause. “Good, thank you, I love you, too.”

“Let me talk to them,” Arthur said. 

“What?” Eames said blankly, and then, into the phone, “Hang on, Arthur wants to…” He handed across the phone to Arthur, saying, “What—”

“Emily?” Arthur said into the phone. 

“Yeah,” said Emily sounding terrified. “Is everything okay? Does Eames need us? Do you need us to—”

“I’ve got Eames,” Arthur promised her, eyes flickering over toward Eames, watching him in anxious exhaustion. “He’s okay, I’ve got him.” 

“You’ll take care of him,” Emily agreed, sounding relieved. “Good. That’s good. What can we do?” 

“Do you have a pen and paper? I want you to take down this number. It’s mine. I’m shutting off Eames’s phone, so call my phone if you need him, okay?” 

Emily said, “Sure thing. Go for it.” 

Arthur gave her his number and made her repeat it back to him. Then he said, “Okay. Stay put at Callie’s for the night. Have fun. It’s all going to be fine.” 

Emily said, “Arthur. _Thank you_. For taking care of Eames. _Thank you_.” 

Arthur glanced over at Eames again and found he had to clear his throat to respond. “It’s nothing, Emily. Any time.” Then he hung up Eames’s phone. 

Eames said wearily, “My parents are never home. Ever. I raised them. They’ll listen to me. They’ll never…”

Eames’s phone rang again. Arthur shut it off and tucked it into his pocket. 

“They’ll be okay,” Arthur promised him, parking his car, and it wasn’t just a platitude. They were tough kids, he could tell. “Come on,” he urged, and got out of the car, depending on Eames to follow him because he had nothing better to do. 

Eames did. 

Arthur’s mother met them, gushing, saying, “Did you have a good— What happened?” 

During the drive, Eames’s eye had decided to energetically turn black. He looked terrible. 

Arthur said lightly, “Nothing,” and walked straight to the kitchen to pull frozen peas from the freezer. “My room’s upstairs,” he told Eames, handing them to him. “On the right.” 

Eames nodded, hesitated, then walked out of the kitchen and up the stairs. 

Arthur listened to him go, waited to hear his door close, and then said, “I…I…”

“What happened, Arthur?” his mother asked firmly. 

“I don’t want to upset you,” said Arthur. 

His mother caught his face in her hands. “You never upset me. It’s never _you_. You know that, right? I’m sorry I’m not—I’m sorry I worry you. I’m sorry. I’ll try not to. I’m so sorry. But that has nothing to do with this. What happened?” 

“His father hit him,” said Arthur, because he couldn’t help it. 

His mother blinked and then her face crumpled a little bit, but she stayed standing, right there with him, and he needed that. She said, “Oh, _Arthur_ ,” and then she pulled him in and hugged him, and Arthur clung to her the way he could never remember doing in his life because Arthur had always had to be the strong one, the one that cleaned up the messes, the one who grew up to become compulsive about making things so the messes never happened, and it didn’t matter, they happened anyway. 

“He’s just a nice person,” Arthur said into his mother’s neck and took a ragged breath in. “He’s just a _nice person_. This is what happens to nice people.”

“No,” said his mother. “What happens to nice people is they find each other. What happens to nice people is they get _you_.” 

***

Eames was standing in the center of Arthur’s room, peas pressed to his cheek. 

Arthur said, “You could have sat down.” 

“Everything in this room is so precise, I was frightened to disturb it.” 

“Oh, now you’re worried about disturbing my neatly ordered life?” said Arthur, with an attempt at a joke. 

“What did you tell your mother?” 

“I told her the truth,” Arthur said firmly. “Because lying is the _worst_ and doesn’t help anything, Eames. And I don’t care if you don’t believe me about this right now, it’s true, and I’ve done the lying and covering up once in my life for someone I loved and it almost killed them and I won’t do it again for you, okay?” 

“He’s never done that before,” said Eames, sounding dazed and shocked by everything. 

“Yes, he has,” said Arthur gently, thinking of all of Eames’s lost art. “It’s just that last time he did it to your heart. This time was almost kinder.” 

Eames looked at the floor and made a terrible little noise, like the sob he’d made when the eggs had hit the floor. “I just _wanted_ you,” he said. “You were so lovely and nice and I just _wanted_ you. It was just a few more months and I couldn’t—I couldn’t—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” said Arthur. “You went out and you got me. Thank God.” 

Eames made that choked little sound again, and Arthur pulled him in, and he went easily, folding himself around him, and shuddered against him. “I didn’t mean to drag you into this _mess_ ,” said Eames against him. “The _eggs_ , Arthur.” 

“Don’t think about the eggs, Eames.” Arthur turned a bit, nudged Eames onto the bed. He went easily, boneless, too exhausted to resist, and Arthur climbed in after him and cuddled close and Eames let him. “Think about us,” Arthur told him, and pulled the blankets up and over them, then leaned up to turn off the light. “Think about how I didn’t think I’d ever not be lonely. And think about how we’re not alone.” 

Eames pulled him in and held him as if he was the only thing keeping the world still. 

Arthur knew the feeling. 

***

Arthur woke to Eames sleeping. They were curled close together, although that was almost by necessity in the tiny bed; they were no longer smothering each other, and Arthur thought maybe that was progress. Maybe Eames was good at working things through while he slept. 

Maybe Arthur was losing his mind. 

He watched Eames for a second, sleeping so heavily and trustingly in his bed, and it would all be _lovely_ if it weren’t for Eames’s vicious black eye.

Eames, he thought, was the most precious thing in his entire life. He wasn’t going to let anyone hurt him ever again. 

But he had no idea what that meant, as a practical matter. 

Arthur got out of bed carefully. Eames was dead enough to the world that he didn’t even move. They’d slept in their clothing, and Arthur looked at the state of his expensive cashmere sweater in the bathroom mirror and didn’t even care. He went downstairs, feeling too exhausted to even bother combing his hair. It was like he hadn’t slept at all. 

His mother was making a breakfast. An actual, honest-to-God cooked breakfast. Arthur wasn’t sure she’d ever done this before. 

“I figured it would be hard to mess up pancakes,” she said when she saw him. “How’s Eames?” 

“He’s sleeping,” said Arthur, trying to pretend he wasn’t ravenous. And the kettle was on. His mother was making him tea. Suddenly Arthur felt like the luckiest person in the entire universe. 

“We need to talk about what to do,” said his mother, all quiet and serious. 

Arthur was readying himself a mug for his tea because it gave him something to do. “He has two little sisters,” he said. “It isn’t just him.” 

The doorbell rang, and he and his mother looked at each other. Then Arthur said grimly, “I’ll get it.” 

“Arthur—”

“It’s fine,” said Arthur, who felt like he had been training all of his life for this moment. 

Except when he peered through the window in the entry, it wasn’t Eames’s father at all. It was the _police_. 

He opened the door in confusion, and one of the policemen said his name, and he said, “Yeah?” because he had no idea what to make of any of this. 

And one said, “There have been charges filed against you. For assault.” 

Arthur blinked. 

His mother said, “For what?” and he looked over his shoulder at her. She had come out of the kitchen with a frying pan half-raised for a weapon. Arthur loved her desperately. 

“Thomas Eames says you assaulted him last night at—”

“He really seriously bloody said that?” said Eames, from the top of the stairs. 

Arthur looked up at him. He looked half-adorable, sleep-rumpled in every way, and half-terrifying, with the size of the bruise making Arthur wince. 

Arthur said, “Eames, it doesn’t—”

“Shut up,” Eames said to him sharply, descending the stairs now. “Is he really pressing charges? _Really_? He wants to do this?” 

The policemen looked uncertain, shifted their attention back to Arthur. “If you could just come to the station—”

“I’m pressing charges, too,” Eames said. 

“Eames,” said Arthur.

“No,” Eames told him. “You’re only involved in this because of me, and you’re more important to me than he is. You’re _a thousand times_ more important to me than he is. You’re the most important person on the _planet_. So stop it.” Eames turned to the policemen. “I’m pressing charges, too. For assaulting me first.” Eames pointed to his black eye. “Against Thomas Eames.” Eames paused for a second, then said, “ _Senior_.” 

***

Arthur had never been to a police station before. He’d honestly never expected to ever be in one. Arthur did everything on the straight and narrow. This was completely surreal. 

“Cheer up,” Eames told him, sounding exhausted, when they were sitting next to each other a few hours later. “This is going to up your street cred tremendously.” 

“Good. I always thought dating you would help my social standing at school, I just didn’t realize _how_.” 

“Ah, see, this is good,” said Eames. “You’re bantering with me.” 

“You look like a fucking wreck,” Arthur informed him. 

“This is quality Arthurian banter, right here. Other people might go for the witty or the romantic, no, you go straight to the heart of the matter. Thank you, my love. Your honesty comforts me in this my hour of need.” 

“I’m serious.” 

“So am I,” Eames told him. 

“Tommy!” a female voice called. 

“Oh, Christ,” Eames muttered under his breath. 

And then a woman descended upon him in a flutter of perfume and flashing jewelry and designer clothing (Arthur knew about designer clothing). She flapped her hands anxiously by Eames’s black eye, making anxious, fretting noises, and Eames ducked away and said, “It isn’t as bad as it looks, but please do be careful of hitting it again.” 

“Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, I’m _so sorry_ ,” said the woman. 

“That’s not working this time,” said Eames stiffly.

And the woman said, “I told him to leave.” 

Eames stared for a moment. Arthur looked between them, uncertain. “You told him to what?” 

“I told him to pack his things and leave. I told him to get out. He’ll be gone by the time I get you home. I promise.”

Eames took a shaky breath and blinked in confusion at this woman. He said, “But you—”

“ _Tommy_ ,” she said, and her hand fluttered near his black eye again, and then she was blinking back tears. “How could you think I’d ever let him hurt you?” 

“Because you just stood there,” Eames bit out, “with everything, with the art, and you didn’t do anything, you didn’t say—”

“I know. I’m so sorry. I won’t ever do it again. Okay? I promise.” 

Eames looked wary. But Eames said hesitantly, “It’s a start, I guess.” 

The woman smoothed her hand over Eames’s hair affectionately, then looked abruptly at Arthur, catching him off-guard, even more off-guard when she smiled a beaming, watery smile at him. 

“You must be Arthur.” 

“I…yes,” said Arthur. 

“He’s dropping the charges against you. I’m sorry about the whole thing. Thank you for that.” The woman reached out and wrapped her hands around Arthur’s, tightly. She hadn’t touched Eames yet, but Arthur sensed she felt more capable of touching a stranger at the moment. “I think you must be lovely. Is your mother here? I must have you both over for tea. Tommy would love it.” The woman looked back at Eames. “Emily and Gretchen are in raptures over Arthur, you know, they adore him.” Back to Arthur. “You made a good impression on them. Apparently you drink tea.” 

***

_What We Learned About Responsibility from Our Egg-Babies_

_Arthur’s Portion_

_[excerpted: a number of charts and graphs analyzing the amount of time spent with the egg-babies, activities performed with them, time the egg-babies spent with each other]_

_Conclusion_

_Raising two egg-babies may have been ambitious, but we thought that two people would be able to cover two babies. It seemed, however, to be more than double the work in the end, requiring at least one of us at all times to either have the capability of taking care of one baby, or the increased capability of taking care of two. Taking care of two egg-babies at once occupies both hands and exposes the babies to the liability of rolling off counters._

_While our egg-babies did not survive to the end of the two-week period, we believe that this was through no fault of our own, thus illustrating an essential lesson of Practical Life Experience: You apparently cannot plan for everything. (But there is no harm in trying.)_

_Eames’s Portion_

_I hereby incorporate by reference Arthur’s entire analysis and add my own conclusion._

_Conclusion_

_It was definitely not our fault Chauncey and Petunia were killed, that was the fault of my prick of a father. Arthur was an exemplary egg-baby father and deserves A+ passing marks._

_Mostly the essential lesson of Practical Life Experience I learned was: Life can basically suck, but it’s better when life sucks if there’s two of you to handle it._

_[This is a good lesson, too. –A.]_

_[Your condescension, as always, is much appreciated, Arthur. Thank you. –E.]_

 

_The end._


End file.
